


A Mountain Keeps An Echo

by marchingjaybird



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarven society, F/M, M/M, Mention of Canonical Character Death, big fat dwarf wedding, book and movie canon, culture clash, elves are buttholes, repopulating Middle-earth with ladies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having fallen in love over the course of their quest, Legolas and Gimli undertake a journey to Erebor in order to make their union official in the eyes of the dwarves.  Far from the family affair that they had planned, however, they soon find themselves in the middle of a very public, very politically charged wedding ceremony with a massive guest list and bad blood on both sides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before The Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for these notes, because there are going to be a lot of them. Okay, ready? Brace yourselves...
> 
> First of all, thank you to Nicki and Brittany, who encourage me and beta my writing and are just the best little family I ever could have hoped for. None of this insanity would have happened if it hadn't been for you guys. It remains to be seen whether that is a good thing or not.
> 
> Second of all, this fic borrows liberally from book and movie canon. Basically, whatever suits my purposes or I prefer better is the canon that makes it in. Some things you should be aware of: Tauriel exists, so does Glorfindel, Haldir never died at Helm's Deep because it's dumb and I hate it, and for the purposes of this fic, Thranduil is blind because it is some [excellent meta](http://aiffe.tumblr.com/post/70264082311/what-do-your-elf-eyes-see-so-basically-i-had). 
> 
> Also, this fic contains original characters, most of whom are female. I love Tolkien's work but I am _not_ a fan of the fact that a whopping four female characters found their way into LotR. So I've added where I could; wives and mothers and sisters to make the story feel more natural. I also don't agree with the fact that dwarven women were excluded from family trees and basically never talked about, so there is going to be a lot of delving into dwarf culture in this story for the purposes of exploring dwarven gender norms and societal roles. But hold tight, it's not going to be as dry as it sounds.
> 
> I have already tagged the fic with all of the pairings that will appear in it. Some of them haven't showed up yet, and some might pop up that I did not anticipate. But as of right now, it's a pretty comprehensive list because I don't like to surprise people with pairings.
> 
> And as always, I very much hope you enjoy this.

  
_A mountain keeps an echo deep inside. That's how I hold your voice.  
-Rumi_

It began quite by accident, at least on Gimli’s part, although later he realized that Legolas must have been wrestling with the decision for a long time indeed.

They had greeted each other after the battle at Helm’s Deep, both relieved to see the other alive, Gimli mildly insulted that Legolas assumed him so easy to kill. There was some bragging, some comparing of numbers, and then the elf had reached down and gripped him by the wrist and drawn him away from the crowds. There was a light in his eyes like the sun reflected on water, bright and trembling, that Gimli recognized too well. Bemused, he had followed, sure that many of the Men were also sneaking off to celebrate the fact that they’d lived, but absolutely certain that none of their pairings were half so strange as this one.

They’d spread their cloaks out on the ground, a fussy gesture. They were both already covered in blood and dirt, and Legolas had twined his long fingers with Gimli’s shorter, stronger ones. “This is strange to me,” he murmured, his bright eyes fixed on the wall in front of them. “I never supposed that I would find friendship with a dwarf, and now I discover that I love one.”

Perhaps he should have suspected then, but Gimli had assumed that the elf’s words were merely the flowery language of his people and not anything significant. His fingers found the sharp line of Legolas’s jaw, turned his head so that their eyes met. He’d meant to say something soothing, something that would make the elf prince smile and laugh and relax, and instead his mouth dried out and his tongue sat like a stone behind his teeth and he was unable to utter a word.

Plainly Legolas was struggling with the same; his eyes were brilliant, his hair like pale gold beneath the filth of battle, but his mouth hung open and his hand shook in Gimli’s grip. They sat that way for a long moment, gazes locked, until Gimli did the only thing that made sense. He’d meant the kiss to be teasing, to draw Legolas out, but there was a hesitance about it, a tenderness that he found wholly unexpected.

The elf’s lips were thin and soft and his mouth was sweet. Gimli wondered what he must taste like: blood and iron and the comforting cold of the stones, to judge by other dwarves he had kissed in the past. It seemed too martial for the elf’s liking, but Legolas leaned into him, parted his lips eagerly, and Gimli recalled ruefully that this tall, slim creature with his smooth skin and fine features had killed very nearly as many orcs as Gimli himself.

They stayed there for hours, twined together, tasting one another’s lips, then bare skin, and laughing at their differences. Legolas was fascinated by his tattoos, the marks of his family and ancestors, the arc of stars that signified the noble line of Durin. His slim fingers tangled in the dark hair that covered Gimli’s chest, lingered on the golden rings that pierced his nipples. “Why?” he asked, toying with one, tugging at it gently. Gimli growled.

“Why not?” he answered. “We make so much jewelry. Why only wear it on our faces?” Legolas had laughed brightly at that, though his mirth had been tempered by the discovery of other rings piercing more intimate places. By that time there hadn’t been much laughter at all, only quick gasping breaths and the lilt of Elvish breathed into the shell of Gimli’s ear, to which he replied roughly in his own tongue, the grinding gutteral syllables of Khuzdul punctuating the rasp of his callused hands across Legolas’s soft skin.

The elf was sweet and hot and tight and they’d moved together, slowing and quickening, drawing out the ending of their pleasure until Legolas, trembling, bit the soft lobe of Gimli’s ear and whispered, “Now, please…”

Spent, they had rested twined together as long as they dared. Gimli, his hands tangled in the elf’s silky hair, wondered how they would look if someone were to come upon them now. He thought about what his father would say if he knew, then quickly resolved never to tell his father. Or his mother, for that matter; she took just as dim a view of the elves as Gloin, and would be even less understanding of the stresses of battle and the comfort to be found in the arms of a companion. But she was a jewelry maker and considered a great beauty among dwarves, not least for the delicate perfection of her filigree work. She’d never been in battle, never seen her companions die in droves.

Gimli closed his eyes and rested his cheek against Legolas’s cool forehead. They would have to move eventually, have to clean up and rearm themselves and go back to the dirty business of fighting wars. But for now, they could rest, content in one another’s company, though had Gimli known then the customs of elves his thoughts might not have been so quiet. He did not discover until far later the true meaning of their affair in Legolas’s eyes, and then only through a casual remark that Aragorn let slip and the look of bemused but genuine congratulations in his new wife’s eyes.

And by then, of course, it was much too late.

***

Legolas returned to Mirkwood a hero.

It would have been disingenuous to deny, or to feign that there was no difference in his manner or attitude. His home was much the same, the trees were still tall and thick, the air still heavy with the scent of their leaves. Animals and birds filled its silent places with the soft noises of their passage, the cold forest made a little warmer by their presence. The halls of his father were the same, the faces of his people unchanged. And yet they looked at him with new light in their eyes, the returning prince, hero of the war, one of the Fellowship that brought about the final downfall of Sauron of Mordor. He felt their regard like the rays of the sun and almost he shied from it. He was newly returned from the crowning and wedding of Aragorn, a friend of old and much changed now since the days that Legolas had known him. He was nobler now, full of purpose and light, and the way the elves of Mirkwood looked at Legolas, it was clear they expected much of the same from him.

And though he did feel different, much older and wiser now that some of the bright gaiety of his youth had made way for sorrow and somberness, he was still Legolas.

Besides that, he hadn’t the time to acknowledge how he had changed in the eyes of his people. There were more important things weighing on his mind, things which he had been steeling himself to speak of all the long journey home. He had faced down terrible things on his journey, fought armies of orcs, slain an oliphaunt single-handedly, and yet he trembled inside to face his parents - particularly his father - with news of the most important outcome of the war.

“Legolas!”

He very nearly did not turn, so intent was he on imagining the expression on his father’s face when he’d said what he needed to say. His ears recognized what his mind refused to acknowledge, and he stopped and turned. Not until he saw her familiar face did his mind catch up, and he broke into a broad smile. “Tauriel,” he said, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I’ve only just arrived back,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him. There had been a time when his father had supposed that Legolas’s fondness for Tauriel was something more, but in truth she had always been as a sister to him, and it was a comfort to hear her voice again after so long. “It seems my timing is as good as ever.”

They linked arms and walked the wide paths of his father’s halls, foreheads pressed together like they were children again. She was slightly younger than he, the captain of his father’s guard and, occasionally, one of the border patrol that accompanied his mother on her rangings. Often, he had felt that if Tauriel had been sent with him to Rivendell and on with the Fellowship, they might have been spared some grief. She was wise beyond her years and more capable than anyone he knew.

“You are different,” she remarked, looking up into his eyes.

“And yet the same,” he answered, attempting levity. Tauriel smiled, but her eyes questioned. It would have been wiser to stay silent, but he found that he wanted her to know, if only to gauge her reaction, and so he confessed. “I have found my love and we have lain together.” It was not unheard of, but to do so without the blessing of his parents, particularly as a prince of Mirkwood…

But Tauriel was smiling at him and her eyes were full of a joy that suddenly seemed very far away from him. “The way you spoke, I thought your news was dire! Smile, Legolas, and tell me where you met!”

“In Rivendell,” he said softly. “But do not be too glad for me, little sister, for it may have been better if I had obeyed my head and not my heart. He is no elf, but a dwarf of Erebor.”

The light faded from her face and she released his arm. It was as he had feared, and yet not; she didn’t regard him coldly or with disgust, but there was an absence in her eyes and she stepped back a pace. He remembered too late another dwarf, many years gone, and the way he had looked at Tauriel with such worship in his eyes. It had never occurred to Legolas that she might have returned that sentiment, but he saw it now in the stiffness of her shoulders and the bloodless line of her mouth.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, an ache rising in his throat. She nodded once, tightly, and turned away, hurrying back the way they had come, likely fleeing to the refuge of the open forest. He watched her go, guilty now for another reason, but he could not stand all day, silent and sorrowful. There were things that must be done and it was better to face them and set them firmly in the past.

His father’s chambers were just as he remembered them, the one thing that he’d known would be entirely unchanged. They were dark; Thranduil had ever found the darkness soothing, and though he knew his father had heard him enter, long habit made him call out, “Father, I am home!”

“So you are,” answered a feminine voice, low and rich and familiar. Athriel of Mirkwood, his mother, rose from behind a partition, smiling. She was dressed still in green and brown and gray and the scent of the forest was in her black hair when she embraced him. “My son, how I have missed you!”

Legolas held her tight, wishing that she could shield him as she had when he was small. It had been thousands of years since he was a child, not much in the reckoning of elves, but enough that he could no longer hide behind the strong arms of his mother. “I am glad to see you here, Mother,” he said, stepping back. She cupped his face. A furrow appeared between her brows.

“You are troubled, Legolas,” she murmured. She took his hand and led him forward, around the partition to where his father, Thranduil of Mirkwood, sat upon the floor. 

“Legolas,” he said, lifting his face. His eyes shifted fractionally, searching, and Legolas spoke.

“I am home, Father,” he repeated, sinking onto one of the soft woven mats that ringed a low table. Thranduil’s eyes snapped immediately to his face and a smile blossomed on his stern features. He put out a hand, stroking Legolas’s cheek with the tips of his long fingers. The smile did not last long - they never did - but there was a warmth to him now. Legolas basked in it while it lasted.

“Your mother says you are troubled,” Thranduil said, folding his hands in his lap. Even on the floor, he looked every inch a king, his robes arrayed impeccably across his legs, his crown decorated with late summer blossoms and glossy green leaves. An ache awoke in Legolas’s breast to see him, and to see his mother, as dark as Thranduil was pale and as regal as he though she wore the clothes of a woodland ranger.

“I have seen many things,” Legolas answered. “And done many more.”

“Will you tell us of your journey?” Athriel asked gently. “Or will you first rest?”

“I will tell you,” he murmured, “but not now. I have other things to speak of now. I have journeyed with many brave companions to places I had never dreamed to see, and along the way…” His voice faltered and he looked up, fixing in his mind the warmth on the faces of his parents before he sundered himself from them completely. “Along the way I have met my one love and we have wed without your permission.”

He hung his head, hands trembling as his mother reached out and took them in her own. Her voice was sorrowful but tender. “Legolas, you are young and rash,” she said, “but do not think that we will be angry with you. You have been through trials that none here could imagine. If you acted hastily out of love, that is natural.”

“Have you brought her here to meet us?” Thranduil asked. There was a softness to his tone, a dangerous stillness as before a storm. He knew that Legolas had not said all he had to say. Athriel’s hands drew slowly away.

“He went back to his own people,” Legolas answered, hoarse. Surprise showed on his mother’s face, but it melted quickly away. Though uncommon, it was not unheard of for elves to take a mate of the same sex. Love, after all, was love. “And I am going to meet him there after I rest.”

“And where is it that you journey?” Thranduil’s voice was a whisper now, deadly as a viper, and his pale blue eyes were locked on Legolas’s face, though they saw not his expression. “Who are his people?”

Legolas drew himself up, held his head high. He would not be shamed, though it would drive his parents and his people away from him. He had agonized for long over the decision and had made it with a glad heart. 

“I journey to Erebor,” he said, and his voice rang through the room. “He is Gimli son of Gloin of the line of Durin.” And, almost as an apology as his mother’s expression stiffened and his father turned his face away, he added, “And I love him, with all I am and more.”

The silence in the room deafened him and he rose, heavy with what he had inflicted on his parents. He had known, when the choice became obvious to him, that to succumb to his heart was to live the rest of his long life in pain, separated from his kin by his love and separated from his love by the doom that the mortal dwarves and Men shared. He would have a handful of sweet years in exchange for that, and in the midst of war and the terror of not knowing he had reckoned the price fair. Now, he wondered, but the thing was done and he would not let his parents shame him into forsaking Gimli.

“You cannot live in a mountain,” Athriel said, so soft that he barely heard her. “Tell me that at least and set my heart at ease.”

He stood stiffly, unsure of how to respond. “We haven’t discussed it,” he answered. His gaze remained fixed on his feet. They were the only things that he could bear to look at. “I am going to Erebor to celebrate with his family. He insists that we wed in the dwarven fashion.”

Thranduil raised his head slowly. His pale eyes burned like stars. “You are not wed in the eyes of his people?” he asked. Legolas made a strangled sound in his throat, a noise of protest that he could not quite bring forth. He knew his father’s mind, for he had thought the same and cast that thought aside. “Then you need only stay with us here. He is a dwarf, he will not live forever.”

Legolas was stricken, unable to argue in the face of the doubts that had plagued him all the long trek home. He knew in his heart that he could never do such things, but pleading his heart to his father would not work. Thranduil would never believe that his love for a dwarf was powerful enough to override all his common sense.

Athriel came to his rescue, her low voice filling the room. “He cannot go back on his word,” she said. “I would rather have a dwarf for a son than an oathbreaker.” She stood, straight and fine as an elven blade. Legolas had never loved her more.

“Then you would send him away?” Thranduil demanded, rising as well. “The dwarf’s family won’t thank you for it. They care for us no more than we for them.”

“Gimli cares for me,” Legolas interrupted, “and I care for him. That’s all that should matter.”

“It isn’t!” Thranduil sliced the air with his hand, shaking with fury. “All that matters is your place and your people. You are the prince of Mirkwood and you belong here!”

Athriel rested her hand on Thranduil’s arm, slowly pushing it back down until it rested at his side. “He is a prince, yes,” she said, “but he is also himself and more importantly, he is your son.”

“You agree with him then?” Thranduil demanded. Legolas met his mother’s eyes, gray as storm clouds, and full now of a deep sorrow that he had never seen before. It was like a spear piercing his heart, worse by far than the fury of his father. Athriel closed her eyes and moved closer to her husband, wrapping both her arms around one of his.

“I wish that he had not done it,” she said. Tears traced gleaming tracks down her fine cheeks and Legolas felt as though they dragged his insides along, hollowing out his body and leaving him in its echoing ruin. She opened her eyes and looked at him, speaking to his father with her words and to her son with her gaze. “I wish with all my heart that he had mastered his heart and come home to us. Better he should have lived all his days alone than face the emptiness of the world when his love passes from it.”

“Mother…” He protested, not knowing what else to do. There was no way to set this right, not anymore, and although his resolve faltered in the face of his mother’s sorrow and his father’s anger, hearing them voice all of his doubts out loud only gave strength to his determination to see this through until its bitter end. 

“Do not interrupt me, Legolas!” she cried, and her face was fierce now though her eyes still glittered with tears. “I wish you had not done this thing because I am your mother and I want the best for you! This may bring you joy now, but you will live on far past your dwarf’s mortal lifespan. Then what? Will you sail into the West to live forever among your people but not of them? Or will you lay down and die of a broken heart?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “But what I have done, I have done out of love. Nothing you say will change that.” He bowed his head, wondering perhaps if he should not have come back to face them. 

But Gimli had told him of the dwarven wedding customs, of the joy they took in joining two families. “It will be different,” he’d allowed, grudgingly. “Painful, even, I imagine. But you must ask them anyway, and I will tell my parents and we will make it work.” He’d smiled then, brief and brilliant. “We can defeat Sauron, surely we can arrange a marriage, eh?”

How could he have arrived in Erebor and faced Gimli if he had not at least tried? He could hold his head high now, say that his parents refused to come, and it would be no fault but theirs. And so he drew himself up now, faced them. Athriel’s tears had dried on her cheeks, though the pain had not left her eyes, and Thranduil’s eyes were turned down, his lips thin with rage.

“I will leave for Erebor in the morning,” Legolas announced. “The wedding will take place in a month’s time. Perhaps you will find it in your hearts to come, perhaps you will not. But I _will_ wed the one I love, and if my parents cannot be present, then I will live the rest of my days without them.”

He left his parents’ chambers then, closing the door hard behind him, but it was not enough to shut out the low, heart-breaking sound of his father’s tears.

***

Erebor, the last great dwarven kingdom, set deep within the Lonely Mountain!

In the years after the fall of the fire drake Smaug it had been ruled over by Dain Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, fifth King Under the Mountain. It had been thus when Gimli and his father had set out for Imladris, but it was no more. Dain had perished in a battle with the Easterlings, an honorable death for a venerable dwarf. It was said that when they came to take his body away he was surrounded by dead enemies far beyond count.

His heir ruled now, Thorin III, but Erebor was much the same as it had been. Still its lofty halls arched high over Gimli’s head, still they glowed with a golden radiance. Its walkways and bridges were crowded, its markets full of dwarven craftsmen trading their wares with Men from Dale. Gimli moved through it all, just another dwarf in the crowds. 

It wasn’t a long walk to his family’s home; they had found a dwelling suitably close to the primary market so that his mother could set up a shop. She rarely worked at it; that was typically left for Gimli’s cousins, and so he did not look to see either his mother or his father as he made his way through the crowds.

Their home was a modest one, carved out of the stones of the mountain into five bedrooms and a huge front room that encompassed kitchen, dining room, and sitting room all in one. His mother’s workshop was towards the back of the house, a shaft having been dug out to vent the smoke from her ovens and fires. His childhood room was next to it; often he had been lulled to sleep or gently awakened by the sounds of her working.

The door was carved out of oak so old it was hard as the iron that banded it. Gimli raised his fist and rapped hard and sound was like a bell ringing. After a moment, the door swung open and there stood Gloin, smoothing his white beard with a look of mild annoyance on his face. He had been counting something or doing sums; when the numbers were in his head he very much despised being interrupted.

The irritation melted away at once when he realized who stood before him and with a loud cry, he embraced his son. Gimli laughed, lifted his father with one arm and strode two steps into the house, kicking the door shut behind him. “You should wait at least until my armor is off,” he chided. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Gloin did not seem to hear his son over his own rapturous cries. He cupped Gimli’s face, slapped his cheeks fondly, and generally bullied him until he fell laughing into a chair and held his hands up in surrender. “Is Mother home?” he asked. He needn’t have; Rona had heard the ruckus and emerged from her workroom, wiping her hands on her apron and frowning thunderously at Gloin.

“Noisy old man,” she snapped, “what are you going on about?” Her transformation was as sudden and entire as Gloin’s had been; joy suffused her face and she hurried across the floor, wrapping strong arms around Gimli’s head and pulling his face into a dark russet beard shot through with white. Rona had been a great dwarven beauty in her day, strong and stocky and clever, with bright blue eyes that gleamed like sapphires in a ruddy face.

“My boy!” she cooed, running his fingers through Gimli’s tangled hair. “You’re safe and sound!” Rona stood back, cupped her son’s face much the same as Gloin had done, and planted a kiss each on Gimli’s cheeks. “And you’ve grown so! You’re as handsome now as your father ever was. Come, lad, let’s get you out of that armor…”

With his mother’s assistance, Gimli was soon divested of armor and hurried off to wash up. He stripped out of his travel-stained clothes, scrubbed the dirt from his skin. Rona would rebraid his beard and hair for him later; for now, he combed the tangles out and rubbed a sharp, resiny oil into both to keep them soft and gleaming. Washed and brushed and redressed in soft, warm house clothes, he rejoined his parents in the main room.

They had not been idle. There was a veritable feast spread across the table, meat and bread and cheese, apples and grapes from the orchards of Dale, fish from the Long Lake, and great foaming pints of beer from the cellars of Erebor. He fell to with pleasure, happy to sate his hunger and rest a while before bringing his news into the open.

They talked as they ate, Gloin and Rona filling the gaps in his knowledge deftly until it felt as though he had hardly been away at all. Much had happened in Erebor in his absence, though little of it seemed of consequence in the face of the things that he had witnessed. They spoke of Gloin’s journey back from Rivendell, of the battles with the Easterlings, of the fall of Dain Ironfoot. Rona spoke highly of the new King Thorin.

“A handsome dwarf with a good head on his shoulders,” she said approvingly, pouring Gimli some more beer. “He’ll do great things for us here. Already, he is opening trade with far settlements and talking of building great roads that lead into Erebor.”

“Ambitious sort,” Gloin allowed, “but we’ll see where he goes. We’ll see.”

They did not speak of Gimli’s journey, of his companions or of the wars or the Ring. That was heavy talk, better suited to a pipe and a fire than the congeniality of the dinner table. Gimli held his peace, asking after this cousin or that, noting familiar faces he had seen in the market, and complimenting his mother on the tongue-searing spices with which he’d flavored the beef. “They’re growing new things in Dale every day,” Rona said, standing finally to clear away the dishes. Gloin rose as well, slapping away Gimli’s hands when he tried to help. “Your father objects sometimes, but I like to at least try them. You never know what will please the mouth.”

They washed up, refusing to accept Gimli’s help, and as he packed his pipe he wondered at the change. When he’d been a boy, they had fairly dunked him in the soapy water in their haste to make him wash up. Now, if he so much as stirred from his chair, he was shouted down by the both of them. He lit his pipe, blew smoke rings into the still air. He was full and clean and sleepy, but there was yet a shadow on his heart and many things to talk about before he went to bed.

Finally, they returned, Rona packing her own pipe, Gloin drawing his ledgers over to him again and beginning to scratch figures and sums onto the thick paper. When Gimli left, he’d been putting together a mining expedition with his old traveling companion, Bofur. Gimli had no head for that sort of thing, but from the look of the columns and numbers, it appeared that they had begun to hire workers and take on supplies. Gimli smiled at the homeyness of it all, and settled back in his chair with a contented sigh.

“I will tell you of my journey later, when everyone is together and I do not have to repeat the details,” he said, “but there is still much to tell that is not for them.” He bowed his head. “I have been to Moria.” Gloin’s pen ceased scratching against the paper and he looked up. The knowledge of what Gimli would say was already in his eyes, but Gimli said it nevertheless. “None survived. I am sorry.”

Gloin bowed his head, accepted the hand that Rona offered him. “I thought as much,” he murmured, “and I mourned my brother long ago. But it makes my heart heavy to hear it said.”

“You will have to go to Dwalin,” Rona said, “and to Dori and Nori.” 

“I will,” Gimli promised. “Tomorrow morning.”

“And you must ask them to the feast,” his mother continued. “To celebrate you returning to us alive. I suppose I won’t get any work done tomorrow if I’ve to go buy food for so many hollow bellies, but it can’t be helped.”

“Save your time and money,” Gimli interrupted, and Rona turned on him with a suspicious glare. In times gone by he might have quailed from an expression like that, but now he met her gaze head on and she dropped her eyes first, muttering under her breath. Gimli continued, smiling faintly as he anticipated their reaction. “I will be getting married soon.”

It was as explosive as he’d expected. The words took a few moments to sink in, but then Gloin leaped from his chair and swept Rona into a joyful jig around the room before releasing her and seizing Gimli by the face once more. “My boy!” he exclaimed, kissing Gimli’s cheeks. “I’m so happy for you!”

Rona was not so excited. Her burly arms were folded across her chest and her bright eyes were narrowed suspiciously. “You say the entire settlement at Moria was destroyed,” she said, “and only you and your father went to Rivendell. There are no dwarf settlements between there and Gondor.” Gloin frowned and stepped back, mirroring Rona’s pose. His great white eyebrows beetled above his dark eyes.

“Well, then,” Gloin muttered. “Out with it. Who is it you think you’re marrying?” Gimli took a long drag of his pipe, held the smoke in his mouth as he relished the tense silence. His parents had ever been a boisterous pair, both of them stubborn as mountains, neither given to keep their councils to themselves. It was a sweet coup that they waited now on his word. He closed his eyes and smiled as he spoke, rolling the words off his tongue in the elven fashion.

“Legolas Thranduilion,” he purred. “Prince of Mirkwood.”

***

“I hear you caused quite a scene yesterday,” Dis said as she shooed a dwarf child out of a chair so that Gimli could sit. He had arrived at her home in Dale only a few minutes ago and Dis, who had always believed that being a princess meant that niceties were suggestions only, had not wasted a moment on them. “They say that the entire market went dead silent when they heard your poor mother scream.”

“Aye, I’m still half deaf myself,” Gimli answered happily, accepting the seat and the glass of wine that she offered. They’d established themselves on a porch, the cooling late summer air a welcome freshness. He had been outside of the mountain too long if he was beginning to enjoy the sun and scent of trees and water to the cool quiet of the stones. Dis clucked her tongue and settled beside him, swatting at a different child as it ran past, this one a child of Men. “Do you keep all of these children?”

“I do,” Dis said, her voice grim as though she were discussing a battle. “They are orphans, all of them. Most of them had parents who died fighting the Easterlings. Some were lost to fever. Others were simply abandoned. Sooner or later the parentless ones find their way here.”

Gimli snuck a glance from the corner of his eye. Dis had always been handsome, very much like her late brother Thorin. Gimli could see the regal hook of Thorin’s nose, the grimness of his mouth, his deep-set clever eyes, all reflected in her profile. Like him, she had dark hair and a dark beard, both shot through with grey now. Like him, she was proud and demanding. But Dis possessed a well of strength deep inside that had led her down a different path than her brother; when he’d died and she’d been offered the throne, she’d passed it on to Dain. She alone of Thrain’s children had survived, she alone had escaped the madness of greed that gripped their line.

“That is worthy of you,” Gimli offered. Dis snorted as she lit her pipe.

“Is it?” she murmured. “I wonder. Perhaps it is some noble feeling that moves me to take in strays and see that they’re fed and clothed and educated.” The pipe kindled, throwing her sharp features into stark relief. “Perhaps I’m just afraid that if there was ever silence in my house I would hear my own boys calling me.”

“My lady…” Gimli did not know what to say in the face of this sudden admission. Before, when he had known her, he had been but a boy, not privy to the sorrows and silences of adulthood. She looked at him now, eyes flashing, and a fierce smile stretched her lips and bared her teeth.

“Don’t ‘my lady’ me, Gimli Gloin’s son,” she chided. “The others won’t say it to you because they are too proud, but I will so that you might hear it once and believe it.” Her face grew suddenly serious. “You have gone where none other would have dared and you have come back without shadow or burden of sorrow. You are the best of us, young dwarf. Never let them tell you differently.” She looked at him shrewdly. “No matter who you wed.”

Gimli was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Dwalin. It had been years since Gimli had seen him, and he was dismayed but not surprised to see that the last specks of brown in Dwalin’s beard had given way under the relentless assault of white. There were lines on his face that had not been there, a creak in his joints when he sat down that Gimli had never heard before. In spite of his age, Dwalin was still burly; Gimli suspected that he would go to his grave with his arms still massive and his belly still flat.

“Is she fillin’ your head with nonsense, boy?” Dwalin grunted as he sat. He held out an imperative hand and Gimli passed him a pouch of pipe weed. 

“When have you ever known me to speak nonsense?” Dis snapped. Dwalin made a noncommital noise in his throat as he tamped down the weed in his pipe. They had been living together ever since Dis gave up the throne, or so Rona had informed him. She’d said it without any judgement - dwarves did not particularly care to pry into the love affairs of their friends and neighbors - but there was a somberness to her tone when she spoke of it. Seeing them now, hearing them talk, Gimli wondered if their relationship was truly a romantic one, or if they had simply found comfort and companionship in one another’s company.

“Just don’t go filling his head with ideas of glory,” Dwalin warned. “Too many young ones think that they’re heroes and go off to fight orcs and come home on their shields.”

Heavy silence fell between the three of them. The laughter and shouting of the children seemed muffled now, the somberness of their words muting its simple joy. Gimli wished he hadn’t come. There had been enough sorrow for one day; Dori and Nori had been bitterly affected by the news of Ori’s death. Dori had cradled Nori’s head as he wept and thanked Gimli, and Gimli had left Dori’s home wishing that they had cursed the orcs or Balin or even him. There had been too many tears since he’d returned home, too much bad news that must be delivered.

“I hear you went into Khazad Dum,” Dwalin said softly. Gimli turned to stare at him, surprised that he’d brought it up, but glad as well. If he hadn’t, Gimli wasn’t sure he would have had the strength to broach the subject. “Did you find my brother?”

“He was killed,” Gimli answered heavily. “They buried him with honor. He lies in a lord’s tomb in the halls of our ancestors.” He thought, perhaps, to bring Dwalin some comfort with that knowledge but the old dwarf laughed, short and hard and angry.

“Balin was no lord,” he snarled. “He was an old fool. Don’t blame the orcs, or the darkness that slept in those halls. They may have dealt the blow, but they did not kill him. It’s pride that did for him, Gloin’s son.” He spat on the ground and stood up so violently that he knocked his chair over. “It’s pride that does for all of us.”

Dis watched him go, her face heavy with sympathy, though her expression lightened when she saw the thunderstruck look on Gimli’s face. “Don’t look so surprised, Gimli,” she chided. “Dwalin’s anger has deep roots. You were too young to remember, but he loved my brother once.” Dis closed her eyes and sighed softly. “Thorin’s death changed him, I’m afraid.”

“I did not know,” Gimli murmured, lost in a maze of old feelings and relationships. He had been but a boy when the dwarves had returned to Erebor, and though he’d heard the stories of Smaug and the Battle of the Five Armies, they were only stories to him. It shocked him still to think that his parents, that Dis and Dwalin, Dori and Nori, Bifur and Bofur and Bombur, all of the dwarves that he had known since he was a little pebble of a thing, they all had _been there_. They carried the scars, physical and emotional, from a time that Gimli’s generation regarded as heroic tales.

He wondered how long it would take before he was in their position, before he was old and grey and and a remnant from a story. The thought of it made his blood run cold.

“Forgive my rudeness,” Dis said, standing. “But it is time to feed the children, and unless you’ve some food hidden away in your jacket I suggest you go before the stampede arrives.” She kissed him on the cheek and told him to give his parents her regards.

“Unless,” she added, as he stepped over the threshold, “they give you grief over your elf. Then you tell them that I will rain down such destruction on their house that they will _long_ for the days of Smaug.”

***

Legolas came to Dale only a few days after Gimli himself arrived home. They had agreed to meet in the rebuilt town in order to save Legolas some discomfort. Though elves were not often seen near the Lonely Mountain, it was not unheard of for one to venture up from Imladris to trade for old books or for the beautiful things that flowed forth from the dwarven craftsmen of Erebor. In this way, Legolas was able to avoid drawing undue attention; most barely spared him a second glance, supposing him to be a ranger of some sort in his soft greens and browns.

There was a fountain in the center of town that Gimli had suggested as a meeting place. “I’ll go to it every afternoon until you arrive,” he’d promised, and Legolas, who had arrived early in order to avoid the possibility of taking a room at one of Dale’s many inns, found himself perched on the lip of the fountain surrounded by a crowd of children.

“Where are your parents?” he asked, alarmed by their presence. There had not been a child in Mirkwood in all his memory, and he did not care for the look of them. It was uncanny the way they stared at him, murmured back and forth to one another. 

“Working,” a girl answered, hands on her hips. “You’re an elf.”

“Yes,” Legolas said, frowning. “Haven’t you seen an elf before?”

“Yes,” the girl mocked, “but they don’t usually hang out at fountains, do they?”

“I saw an elf once,” a small dwarf chimed in. For the life of him, Legolas couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, but already it had a soft curling little beard. “And then my da hit it with a hammer.”

“That was an orc, stupid,” the first girl snapped. “They don’t even look the same!”

“They’ve got pointy ears!” the little dwarf protested. Legolas, who was attempting to hold his temper and failing miserably, was spared from further discussion by the arrival of an oddly familiar dwarf.

“Shoo, you little brats,” he groused, stomping through the midst of the children and scattering them like chickens. His dark eyes, fixed on Legolas’s face, burned with simultaneous dislike and curiosity. “So. You’ve come after all.”

Clearly, the dwarf knew him, and knew that he’d been scheduled to arrive, which meant that he was likely a friend or relation of Gimli’s. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, though Legolas could not place him, and it was hard to tell from his words and his blank expression whether he was hostile or not, so Legolas answered cautiously. “I have. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I thought you’d get home to your father and your trees and realize that marrying a dwarf was more than you bargained for,” he answered. Legolas held his gaze steady, unwilling to give any indication that it had very nearly happened that way. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I do,” Legolas answered. “I know we have met before…”

The dwarf tipped his head down and for a moment Legolas was confused. Then he saw the faint blue lines and shapes that decorated the top of the dwarf’s head, faded with time, and he recalled a much younger figure, fierce and formidable and always by the side of Thorin Oakenshield. The dwarf chuckled and joined him, settling on the edge of the fountain beside him.

“Yes, that’s right,” he smirked. “You threw me in a dungeon once upon a time. How do you feel about _that_?”

“I’m sorry,” Legolas answered stiffly. “I was only doing what I thought necessary.”

The old dwarf grunted, nodded his head a few times. “I’m long over it, lad,” he said. “I bring it up because I have cause to dislike you, but I don’t. There are many others who won’t say the same.”

“I know,” Legolas said, bowing his head. “Perhaps it is selfish of me to have come here. I should have stayed in Mirkwood with my father.”

“That’s not what I said,” the dwarf remonstrated. “I said there will be many who don’t care for you. Some will have cause and some will not.”

“It will make Gimli’s life difficult.”

“It might. It might.” The old dwarf shot him a shrewd glance. “Will the wagging of idle tongues change your love for him?”

“They cannot,” Legolas answered. “It is… different with my people. We love only one other our entire lives. Gimli is my one, though it would have been easier on us both were it not so.”

“Not so different,” the old dwarf murmured. Legolas looked at him, eyes narrowed, and saw a flash of sorrow, old but still raw, contort his features. “Some of us are the same. Look, here he comes now!”

The dwarf’s voice had changed suddenly, growing full and hearty again, and Legolas sprang from his seat, followed the line of the dwarf’s pointing finger. Gimli looked very different out of his armor; without mail and plate and padding to confuse the eye, Legolas could see the natural width of his shoulders, the iron of his arms, the depth of his barrel chest. His red hair fell free about his shoulders, his beard had been lovingly braided and beaded, and Legolas saw, to his delight and amusement, that in the light of day with fresh scrubbed skin, Gimli’s cheeks and forearms were dotted with freckles.

“There you are!’ he roared, catching Legolas around the waist and lifting him off his feet. Legolas looked around nervously, but no one seemed to be watching. No one seemed to care. The old dwarf, his erstwhile companion, tipped him a wink which seemed to say _yes, there will be those who will stare and point, but not here, you’re safe here_. His feet met the ground again. Gimli’s head came up only to his shoulder and so he bent forward, wrapping himself as tightly around the dwarf as he could.

“You’ve made good time,” Gimli remarked, laughing and pulling back, though Legolas was reluctant to let him go. His hair was soft and fragrant and the strength of his arms was a wall against Legolas’s grief and misgivings. His powerful hands closed around Legolas’s fingers, lifted them to his lips. “But you do not look happy.”

“My father,” Legolas began, then stopped and shook his head. It was yet too raw for him to speak of in front of others. Gimli understood, squeezing his hands and turning to the old dwarf. 

“I’m sorry we can’t stay, Dwalin,” he said, and Legolas nodded. Of course. Dwalin. “I must take Legolas to meet my mother or she’ll have my hide.”

“Take care with him, lad,” Dwalin warned. “He looks liable to break if you use him too rough.” Gimli laughed heartily. Legolas could only stare, blood rising to his cheeks. He had known that dwarves were casual about their relationships, but not like _this_. Never like this!

“He could lift you over his head easily enough, old man,” he chided. His hand slipped free of Legolas’s grip, fingers twitching ever so slightly. Dwalin snorted and shook his head.

“Just don’t let Rona eat him alive,” he said, starting off across the square. “Dis will want to meet him too, the poor thing.”

They started off across the square, Legolas’s hand resting against the nape of Gimli’s neck, concealed by the cool fall of his hair. His doubts seemed so distant in the face of Gimli’s physical presence, the warmth of his skin, the richness of his voice, the proud set of his shoulders. His father’s rejection, his mother’s grief, both pained him still, but next to Gimli he did not feel bound by them.

He allowed himself to be led, unaccustomed as he was to navigating in a city. Dale soon fell behind them, and they crossed a long, wide bridge to the gates of Erebor. Legolas marveled at their scale, at the statues that flanked them, and the wide yard before them. Here and there were crowds of people, standing and talking; Legolas saw a handful of Men, a large number of Dwarves, and no other Elves. Here outside of Dale, his appearance attracted more attention and he gripped Gimli’s neck tighter and tighter until the Dwarf laughed and reached up, taking his hand and twining their fingers together.

“Be easy, Legolas,” he teased. “You’ll break my neck before we even enter the gates.”

“They are larger than I remembered,” Legolas confessed. He had been here once before, during the Battle of Five Armies, and he had seen the great gates of Erebor from a distance. To walk towards them now, to see them grow bigger and bigger, was dizzying and humbling.

“Now you’ll see the true cleverness of the Dwarves,” Gimli said, leading him past the gate guards, who nodded at Gimli and stared at Legolas, but did not accost them in any way. 

Gimli led him slowly through the city, stopping to point out different paths and shops and marketplaces. There was a road that descended to the mines, another that wound up and up to the throne room of the King Under the Mountain. There were forges and quarries and schools where young Dwarves learned their trade, be it smithing or fighting or mining or book-keeping. There were yards in which Dwarves in heavy padding practiced their fighting, and yards with targets where they pulled short, powerful bows and loosed thick-shafted arrows. There were inns and hostels, bakeries and butcher shops, and on every other corner there was a Dwarf or a group of Dwarves singing and playing instruments to appreciative crowds.

Legolas walked through it all in silent shock and no small amount of shame. Even after he had realized his love for Gimli, even after he had admitted it, he had not revised his opinion of dwarves as a whole. He’d still supposed them to be hairy little hoarders who lived in great caves and slept on the hard ground and that all the beauty that their culture possessed was housed in the things that they made and passed on to Elves and Men.

“Gimli,” he said in a low voice. “This is…”

Gimli seemed to understand. He squeezed Legolas’s hand and led him on, through winding streets and over bridges that arced gracefully over great chasms and through market after market. The further they passed into the city, the less Men Legolas saw, until there were only Dwarves and him, and he was the object of intense scrutiny.

“Are we almost there?” he murmured. Most of the gazes directed his way were merely curious, and several of the dwarf children laughed and pointed at him. Still, there were some unfriendly glances, some dark muttering behind cupped hands. Was this how Gimli had felt going into Lothlorien, when the scouts had tried to blindfold him? That immediate mistrust was hard to bear; suddenly, he was sure he would suffocate beneath this mountain, crushed by thousands of tons of rock and the inherent dislike of the people who lived within it.

He became aware, slowly, of Gimli’s concerned gaze and of the tight wheezing of his own breath. “I am fine,” he said, but it sounded strangled, and Gimli walked faster, thrusting Dwarves out of his way as he hurried Legolas down a maze of alleys and side streets. By the time they stopped, Legolas was covered in a cold sweat and Gimil’s face was grim.

He swung open a great wooden door and thrust Legolas into a wide, warm room. There was a small fire blazing in the corner, the smell of hearty food in the air, and a pair of surprised Dwarves, one frozen in the act of lighting a pipe. There was silence for a moment except for his frantic gasping, and then Gimli gripped his arm and guided him to a chair and one of the other Dwarves sprang up and hurried to a basin.

“I’m sorry,” Legolas whispered, pressing a hand to his chest and trying to calm his racing heart. He had never in his life experienced a feeling of such overwhelming oppression. “I thought I would be fine…”

“Nonsense,” said the Dwarf at the table, who had recovered and was now puffing away at a clay pipe. Recovered somewhat, Legolas recognized him now as Gloin. He had been at the Council in Imladris and, in truth, looked much the same as he had all those years ago in Mirkwood, save that his hair had turned snowy white. “It’s your first time under the mountain, of course it would weigh on you. Some of the men from Dale can’t enter the gates at all, they’re so frightened.”

The other Dwarf, who must be Gimli’s mother, returned with a glass of cold, clear water which she pressed into Legolas’s hands. “Drink,” she urged. “It will help you catch your breath.” He obeyed, gulping down the water until the coldness of it made his head ache. But he found that when he set the cup down, his breathing had returned to normal and the flush was fading slowly from his body.

“I apologize,” he said softly, looking down at his feet. “I did not think your mountain would overwhelm me so. I followed Gandalf through Moria, and my own people live in caves, but…” He was ashamed of himself, and ashamed that this was the first impression Gimli’s parents would have of him, that he was a shaking child.

“Nonsense,” Gimli’s mother said, taking the cup and refilling it with a foamy amber liquid that looked like ale but smelled much more potent. “I doubt you delved half so deep in Khazad-Dum, and you were in the company of a wizard.”

“And besides that, it is always difficult to be the only one of your kind in a place,” Gimli said gently, resting his broad hand between Legolas’s shoulderblades. Legolas realized that through all their long journey, Gimli had been the only Dwarf present; even the hobbits, who were mere stories to most of the world, had had one another. 

“Well, at any rate, you’re with your own kind here,” Gimli’s father said, gruff and scowling. Legolas stared at him in open confusion as Gloin rose from the table and followed his wife into the kitchen area.

“That’s right,” Rona agreed. “You’re marrying my son, so that makes you my son as well.” There was a fierceness in her bright eyes that reminded Legolas of his own mother, and that comforted him more than words ever could. “Now, I hope dinner will be to your liking. I’ve had a devil of a time finding out how Elves eat, and I’ve had to make a few adjustments, but I think you’ll find it suitable.”

And Legolas, tears standing in his eyes, said, “I’m sure I will.”

***

There was, as it turned out, much and more to see in Erebor. After that first dinner with Gimli’s parents - which turned out to be exceptional, especially after he assured Rona that Elves, at least the Mirkwood variety, did in fact consume meat and he would be happy to try things prepared in the Dwarven fashion - they had been hosted somewhere new every night. Gimli had a huge extended family, some of whom, he admitted, were only interested in gawking at Legolas, but others who were genuinely interested in the stories that the two had to tell.

They visited Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur at Bombur’s home(pleasant company, and they kept an excellent table; Bombur was so fat that he was entirely unable to move on his own, but he was a wealth of humorous stories and after dinner sang to them in a rich, plummy voice while his plump wife and their dozen children sang and danced and played a surprising variety of instruments), and then Dori and Nori (slightly more modest, but Dori brewed a lovely tea and Nori showed Legolas an easy way to execute some surprisingly complicated Dwarven braids), and then there were cousins and uncles and grandparents and Legolas’s head fairly spun from it all. Days they did not spend visiting, Gimli took him to the markets and the forges and out to Dale on errands for Rona. They bought him new clothes, tailored specially to fit him but sewn in the Dwarven fashion and embroidered with their angular patterns and runes. He slowly accumulated beads in his blond hair, and though he declined to wear heavy Dwarven boots, he soon blended in much more easily. He still attracted some attention, but it was polite now. One young Dwarf had even asked how he braided his hair so well and he would have explained if Gimli hadn’t snarled and frightened her away.

“She was flirting with you,” he explained, beard bristling, and Legolas had laughed so happily that Gimli had soon forgotten his irritation and joined him.

Time was creeping forward slowly, inching into the middle of his second week in Erebor, when they were summoned.

It was late afternoon, best as Legolas could judge, and he was sitting around the table with Gimli and Gloin and Rona when a rapping came at the door. “Are we expecting someone?” Gloin asked, raising his bushy eyebrows. Rona shook her head sharply and rose to answer the door. There was a young Dwarf standing there dressed in very fine clothes, with elaborate braids in his beard and hair. He and Rona had a short, sharp conversation which Legolas attempted to eavesdrop on, though he quickly gave up when he realized they were speaking Khuzdul. The conversation ended abruptly and Rona turned and glowered at Gimli.

“You’ve been summoned to the King’s chambers,” she snapped. “The both of you.” Terror coursed through Legolas and drained out again almost as fast. For a moment, he’d been sure that he was about to be evicted from the mountain, forbidden from seeing Gimli again. But Rona looked irritated, not worried, and Gimli and Gloin only seemed surprised. There was no cause for fear.

“I’ll have to change,” Gimli muttered, standing up.

The dwarf at the door spoke, again in Khuzdul, and Gimli’s face darkened. “I will come when I am ready,” he stated coldly. “And I’ll thank you to speak in the common tongue in front of my betrothed. Or has King Thorin’s house forgotten their courtesies?”

There was a tense moment of silence and then the dwarf at the door inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “Of course,” he said, cool and regal. “Though the King urges you to come with all haste, as it is a matter of some importance.” He cast a haughty glance at Legolas, who drew himself up and returned the glare with one of his own.

“I am sure His Majesty will appreciate our desire to look our best,” he answered. “You may take him my regards and tell him that Prince Legolas Thranduilion of Mirkwood and Gimli son of Gloin of the Line of Durin will be glad to attend him within the hour.”

Taken aback, the messenger muttered something about conveying their words and hastily backed out of the doorway, which Rona shut with a snap. Legolas began to move towards the bedroom, wondering what he had that was fine enough to wear in the presence of the King Under the Mountain when he became aware that all three Dwarves in the room were staring at him. He froze, chagrined, and cast a pleading glance at Gimli.

“Sounded quite a bit like your father there, young elf,” Gloin murmured, stroking his beard.

“It cannot always be helped,” Legolas answered, lifting his chin. Gloin chuckled and the thin thread of tension was broken.

“Go on, then, lads,” he said. “Get yourselves dressed…”

***

“I don’t like the way my father looked just now,” Gimli muttered, yanking his clothes off before the door was fully closed. Legolas, so haughty with Thorin’s messenger, turned to him in surprise. 

“What do you mean?” He, too, began to strip and Gimli admired out of the corner of his eye the long lines of Legolas’s body. He was finely made, like a well tuned harp, and Gimli longed to lay hand to him again and make him sing. He smiled as he caught Legolas watching him, too, clucked his tongue in amusement. The Elf was not half so eager as he in the matter of physical intimacy, but he responded to Gimli’s gaze like a flower responds to the sun, preening and twisting and soaking in his regard.

“I mean,” Gimli continued, rifling through drawers and trunks in order to find his best clothes, “there was a light in his eyes that is only there when he has some idea or other.” He uncovered a deep blue tunic woven of fine, rich material. Gloin had done the embroidery on it; he had a fine hand with thread and needle and a patient eye, and the work was of princely quality. Gimli tossed it onto the bed and turned to Legolas, who was standing in the middle of the room, half clothed and with a stricken look on his face.

“I haven’t anything fine enough to wear before a king,” he said softly. “All I have is what has been made for me since I came here and the ranging clothes that I wore on my journey.” Gimli sighed and turned back to the trunk.

“I was saving this as a surprise,” he said, unearthing a wrapped package and handing it over. “It was meant to be a gift, but I suppose you’ll have more need of it now.” Curious, smiling, Legolas unwrapped the package and made a small noise of surprise and pleasure.

The shirt was of the finest material the Dwarves could weave, so light and supple that it could very nearly be pulled through the eye of a needle. It was pale green and touched here and there with delicately curling vines beaded and embroidered in gold, and cut to frame the broadness of the Elf’s shoulders and the narrowness of his slim waist. “Gimli, it’s beautiful,” he cried. “I did not know that Dwarves could make garments such as this!”

“If it can be made, Dwarves can make it,” Gimli answered, smiling as Legolas pulled the shirt over his head. The fabric seemed to shimmer and ripple as if it were liquid, and Legolas seemed to glow from within, more beautiful and fey than Gimli had ever seen him before. He drank in the sight, wondering how he had come to love a creature such as this, and when Legolas turned to him with shining eyes, he cleared his throat and proffered a thin circlet set with softly winking peridots and amber.

“This as well,” he said gruffly, turning his face away and concerning himself with his own clothing again. “I suppose since it was made to go with the shirt, you ought to have it as well.” Legolas took the circlet from his hand and settled himself on the edge of the bed, brushing his shining hair and twisting it effortlessly into fine braids that he arrayed in a distinctly Dwarven style. Gimli watched as he dressed, choosing a shining shirt of chainmail to go under his tunic. Legolas gestured him over and Gimli reluctantly went. Though the Elf was still learning the art of Dwarvish braiding, his hands were faster than Gimli’s own, and he finished quickly, smoothing Gimli’s beard before leaning down to give him a swift, sweet kiss.

“There,” he said, picking up the circlet and settling it on his brow. It gleamed against his pale skin and Gimli smiled, kissed the tips of Legolas’s fingers.

“You are perfect,” he said, pulling the Elf to his feet. “Now come, we’ve taken quite long enough.”

They exited the room to find Rona sitting at the table, sketching designs for the rings and necklaces that she would make the next day. She looked up at them and smiled, reaching out and grasping Gimli’s hand, then Legolas’s. “My handsome sons,” she murmured, and Gimli flushed with pleasure at hearing her speak of Legolas in this manner. He still had not grown accustomed to it, though she and Gloin had gone to great lengths to welcome the Elf into their home.

“Where is my father?” Gimli asked, eyes narrowing as he noticed Gloin’s absence. “What has he done?” Rona snorted and shook her head, gesturing sharply towards the door.

“He is outside, I imagine, living out his fancies,” she said. “You can tell him I won’t save him any supper if he’s out too long.” Dreading what he would find on the other side of the door, Gimli pushed it open and froze. From behind him he heard Legolas laugh in soft delight. 

Arrayed outside the house, dressed in their best battle armor and wielding their old weapons stood a semi-circle of old Dwarves. Gimli looked at their faces, named them in his mind. Bifur and Bofur, Dori and Nori, Dwalin, and in the center, his own father, Gloin son of Groin. He wore only one axe; the other he had given to Gimli before the Fellowship had set out for roads unknown. They were all that was left of Thorin’s Company - save, of course, Bombur - and they had come to escort Gimli and Legolas to the King.

“How did you get them together so quickly?” Gimli asked, clasping his father’s arm. Gloin beamed at him and slapped his shoulder.

“Never you mind,” he said. “Let’s just get the two of you to Thorin Stonehelm before he loses his royal patience.”

And so they set out, Gimli and Legolas walking in the center of the formation. Gloin took the lead and they were flanked on the left by Bifur and Bofur and on the right by Dori and Nori. Dwalin took up the rear, old and proud and carrying a great axe in his powerful hands. Dwarves made way for them in the streets and across the narrow bridges, whispering behind their hands. There was some attention paid to Gimli and Legolas, their fine clothes, their proud faces, the way that Legolas shone like a gem in its setting, fine and noble. But most of the talk was for the others, these heroes who had won them back their home, these rich old Dwarves parading around in the streets. Some, perhaps, found it disgraceful; Dwarves did not look kindly on those who gave themselves airs. Most, however, smiled or inclined their heads as the procession passed, and quite a few younger Dwarves began to tail them, laughing and talking as though they were in a parade.

Bifur began to whistle softly and Nori laughed. “I don’t know as how that’s appropriate,” Dori whispered loudly. Bofur shrugged minutely, gestured to the axe buried in Bifur’s skull. Legolas smiled at them but his brows were drawn down slightly in concentration.

“I know this song,” he murmured to Gimli.

“As do I,” Gimli answered. It had a rolling quality, a steady rhythm to which they all instinctively matched their gaits. Suddenly, Legolas laughed aloud, clear and joyful, and he began to sing.

The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began  
Now far ahead the Road has gone  
And I must follow, if I can

The others joined in, laughing, some of them touching their hands to their hearts. Gimli raised his eyebrows and looked up at Legolas. “Frodo’s old walking song?” he murmured. The hobbits had sung it a few times on their journey, trying to liven the spirits, but Gimli had never learned it.

“I imagine,” Legolas answered, “it is actually Bilbo’s old walking song.”

And Gimli looked around the circle of their guard, at the faces of these old Dwarves who walked proudly through the streets singing a song that a hobbit had taught them. Nori wore a broad smile, Bofur a far away expression that might have been happiness and might have been sorrow. Dori wiped a tear from his eye. Even Gloin sang gruffly, his eyebrows bristling fiercely as though daring any to challenge him. Gimli glanced back over his shoulder and met Dwalin’s gaze and nearly recoiled from the raw loss and pain in the old Dwarf’s eyes. It was not a happy song for him, full as it must be of memories of the journey, and of Thorin Oakenshield, whom he had loved. Slowly, Gimli reached up and took Legolas’s hand, giving silent thanks that through their battles and long journeys, fate had not seen fit to separate the two of them.

They sang through Bilbo’s song, and part of another, and at some point the King’s guard fell into step with them and then they were there, standing before the great doors that led into the throne room. Gloin turned and clapped Gimli on the shoulder. “We’ll wait for you out here,” he said, and by the fierceness in his eyes, Gimli knew that he meant to take the two of them home whether Thorin Stonehelm willed it or no. One of the guards began to speak but was stilled by a menacing rustle of weaponry from the old Dwarves. Gimli could see them exchanging glances; it was quite likely that they could cut down at least part of the Company, but they would pay a dear price for it and none of them wanted to be the Dwarf who killed a hero. So they held their peace and allowed the six Dwarves to reform their semicircle as Gimli and Legolas proceeded forward.

The great doors swung open before them and they stepped onto the arched bridge that led to the foot of the throne. Thorin III sat there, regal and (from what little Gimli recalled and the stories he had been told) entirely unlike the previous Thorin that had sat on the throne. Stonehelm was stocky and powerful, as were all Dwarves, but his hair and beard were a deep tawny gold and his eyes seemed to smile even as he leaned forward and sternly regarded the two of them.

“An elf in my kingdom,” he intoned, “and you have not brought him to meet me?”

Gimli inclined his head politely. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not wish to trouble you.” Thorin snorted, leaned against the high back of the throne.

“Well, you have, Master Gimli,” the King answered. “You have troubled me more than I can possibly describe.” Legolas began to answer, drawing himself up, and Thorin held up a hand to stop him. “Peace, young prince. I did not seek to insult your union. Indeed, I have high hopes that this will bring a final friendship between your people and mine.”

Legolas subsided, frowning, and Gimli spoke again. “Why have you called us here, then?”

“I have received a message only this morning,” Thorin said dryly. Gimli felt rather than saw Legolas’s sudden stiffness, as though every muscle in his body had tightened all at once.

“Was it my father?” he asked. Thorin nodded, stroking his beard. “And does he demand my return?”

The King Under the Mountain raised his eyebrows, then lowered them, then laughed. He snapped his fingers and one of his guards hurried away through a side door. “Quite the opposite, my dear prince,” the King murmured. The guard returned, trailed by a tall young elf maiden dressed in shining armor. Legolas inhaled sharply, muttered under his breath. _Tauriel_.

Thorin leaned forward again, his eyes glittering with amusement and anger and resignation. “He sent word that the King and Queen of Mirkwood, along with an entire retinue, will be here within the week for a wedding and that I should make ready rooms, both here and in Dale for them, and for the other guests.” Gimli stared in astonishment at the elf woman, who looked back at him with an unreadable expression.

“Other guests?” Legolas said, his voice breathy and weak.

“Oh yes,” Thorin answered, relishing the words. “It seems he intends to bring half of the world along with him. I can see by your expressions that you did not intend this, but there’s nothing for it now. We will be hosting a wedding to shame all weddings.” His smile was sharp and his eyes bright, and Gimli wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and disappear. “I sincerely hope you can plan it in two weeks, Master Gimli. This promises to be a tale for the ages.”


	2. Glass Nín le Govaded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil and Athriel arrive, Gimli learns of the customs of elves, Legolas learns of the customs of dwarves, Tauriel finally experiences closure, and the Lonely Mountain makes itself known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, full of headcanons!!
> 
> I think the only thing worth mentioning in this one is that I elected to make Erestor and Lindir brothers because a) why not and b) I like sibling dynamics. Pretty sure that's it, though, and I hope you guys enjoy this new addition! 
> 
> Next Chapter: THE WEDDING STARTS!!

The days passed in a blur.

What had originally been intended as a small affair, just friends and family and a truncated version of the traditional ceremony had blossomed into a week long gala that would involve all of Erebor and much of Dale, and would include as guests anyone who decided to show up. At the height of the Dwarven empire, it had been common for Dwarven weddings to last as long as twelve days; they were a vanishingly rare occurrence, after all, as many Dwarves opted to simply cohabit and raise what children, if any, issued from the union. Weddings were only for the very important or the passionately in love, and there was little enough of either group in Dwarven culture. According to Gloin, the last big wedding had been just after they’d returned to Erebor, when Bombur wed his wife, and the celebration had lasted three days.

Now that the King was involved, however, Legolas and Gimli had become symbols of the union of two realms, of two people so long divided, and the attention that it garnered was enough to drive Legolas to distraction. He could not leave Gimli’s home without attracting a crowd of well-wishers, protesters, and merchants hoping to be selected to provide goods for the young couple.

The merchants he could deal with. They were eager and all of them brandished samples in the hopes of winning him over, but they were easily passed by or sent away with a few promises to come by and look over their wares. The protesters he simply ignored. They were a vocal minority, but one that he had expected. They jeered at him or shouted cruel things about his people but they did him no lasting harm and their anger only made him more determined than ever.

It was the well-wishers that stopped him in his tracks. Most of them were young, and they gazed at him with hope and love shining in their faces. It was disturbing to see such a pragmatic people behaving in such an uncharacteristic way, and though they were as small a group as the protesters, still they managed to make themselves omnipresent to the point that Legolas was sure he would grab one and shake them and ask what they thought they were doing.

Gimli took it much better. “They’re only romantics,” he soothed, stroking Legolas’s hair as they lay in bed together. “It happens whenever someone has a big wedding.”

“It seems very strange,” Legolas answered. Gimli’s hands were big and callused but his fingers were gentle and the rhythm of them in his hair had a deeply calming effect. “I never thought a Dwarf would be so enchanted by love.”

Gimli laughed and kissed Legolas’s forehead. “Because most of us aren’t,” he said. “There are better things to do, important jobs to finish. Gems to mine, gold to fashion, music to play. But surely there are incurably romantic Elves as well?”

“Of course.” Legolas frowned. “It isn’t so strange, though.”

“Isn’t it?” Gimli inquired. “When my people look at Elves, we see creatures that are absorbed with themselves, unaccountably fond of trees, and overly given to wandering around under the stars and singing songs about them. Why should that bring romanticism to mind?”

“And what is the Dwarven notion of romance, then, that the stars and the forest should not bring it to mind?” Legolas laughed.

“The beauty of solidity,” Gimli answered, solemn. “A gem in a perfect setting, the radiance of rare metals. The growth of crystals and rocks. The surfaces of pools far beneath the mountain, unstirred by air or rain, clear and cold and dark like polished mirrors.” Legolas felt the words reverberate in Gimli’s chest and he was moved by them, despite their strangeness. “Romance for my people is a dark thing. It is the deep caves, the cold, the silence. It is stillness.”

“And these Dwarves that wait outside our door, that follow us and smile at us, they see that stillness in our union?” Legolas asked. Gimli kissed his forehead again, then his cheeks, then his mouth, and it was a long while before he answered Legolas’s question, lost as they were in their embrace.

“They see it,” he said finally, stroking a finger along the elf’s swollen lips. “They see the stillness of my heart reflected in my eyes.”

Legolas looked and he saw it too, a depth of feeling that was both astonishing and wholly familiar. Where his love for Gimli he imagined as being as open as the sky, full of the gleam and glow of stars, expansive and glittering and brilliant, he saw that Gimli’s love for him was deep and calm and silent. Not passionless, but a different kind of passion than he was accustomed to from the Dwarf.

“They are still strange to me,” he said, resting his head on Gimli’s broad shoulder. He had to curl his legs up to keep them falling off the end of the bed when they lay like this, but it was a small price to pay. 

“Let them be strange, then,” Gimli answered. “Soon your people will be here and you need not feel so out of place.”

“That is not what I meant,” Legolas chided. His stomach clenched and he pushed away the thought of his parents arriving in Erebor. It would happen soon enough, and there was nothing to be gained by fretting about it.

“Even so,” Gimli said placidly. “Even so.”

***

They arrived on the day that Thranduil had promised. Tauriel watched from a high window as the procession made its way through Dale; the Elven King and his Queen drew much attention, and the people of the town lined up on either side of the road to cheer and shout and throw flowers as though Thranduil and Athriel had come specifically for them. Even from so far away, Tauriel’s sharp elven eyes could see Athriel’s discomfort. The Queen was no highborn lady accustomed to attention. She was a warrior, as were all the elves of Mirkwood.

They looked the part, though, Thranduil in his crown of branches and berries and vivid autumn leaves, Athriel in a circlet woven of willow and spider silk and adorned with glittering amber and the jewel-like wings of butterflies. They wore armor under their fine robes and carried weapons - a sword at Thranduil’s hip, knives at Athriel’s and a bow slung across her chest - not very subtle reminders that though they were the rulers of Mirkwood, they did not sit idle in their halls. Each of them sat astride one of the great deer which populated the forest, and which Oropher had long ago tamed to use as mounts, Thranduil on a proud stag and Athriel on a graceful doe.

Their guard marched behind them and Tauriel wished she was at their head. It chafed, being sent as a messenger to the Dwarves when she should have been organizing their escort, a mission made even worse by the fact that she had been trapped in Erebor for the duration. She would have happily made the trek back to Mirkwood and then turned around and returned if it meant she did not have to spend her nights under the mountain alone. But Thranduil had ordered her to remain and ensure that their rooms were properly prepared.

“There are chambers high in the mountain,” he’d told her, “made especially for visiting elves. There are windows and balconies and streams that run down the walls and across the floors. Green things grow there, so that one might be spared the stink of stone and fire. I want you to inspect them, make sure that the water is clean, that the plants and flowers are healthy.” He had paused, then, a frown twitching across his fine lips. “I will not allow my wife to suffer any more than she must.”

And Tauriel had held her peace, though she knew that Thranduil was not worried for Athriel. His queen was made of stern stuff and would not shy from sleeping on bare rocks on the top of the mountain if she must. He worried for his own sake, for the sake of his senses and the charade that he had maintained for so many thousands of years.

Tauriel turned away from the window and surveyed the room she had been allotted. It was not overly large, but she did not require much space for herself and she had told the stewards that when they brought her up. The ceiling was a high vault, the walls rugged and yet graceful, dotted all over with soft moss and ferns and tiny, star-shaped flowers, a deep buttery yellow in color. The bed was low to the ground, tucked away in a little hollow. The table was high and small and carved all over with wonderful skill. Water dripped and trickled down the walls, formed pretty little pools set in the floor, in which lilies floated and bright little fish darted and played. The window and balcony were cunningly concealed; from outside the mountain, they could not be seen, and from within the room, they could be closed off by means of a light wooden door.

The rest of the rooms were much the same, varying only in size and furnishing. It was entirely acceptable, even surprising. Tauriel had never considered that the Dwarves might possess a talent for natural beauty in addition to their material cleverness. Even seeing these rooms she doubted it. Perhaps some elf had designed them and trained the Dwarves in their maintenance. It was an uncharitable assessment, but one which she preferred.

She donned her armor once again. It had been polished the night before and gleamed dangerously as she walked out into the corridor. She would have to descend several flights of endless steps and cross six bridges before meeting up with her king and queen, but it was a small enough price to pay to be separate from all of the noise and bustle of the city proper. She rounded the corner, preparing to tackle the first flight of stairs, but stopped short.

There was a Dwarf there waiting, dressed in the armor of one of the King’s guards. He was tall for a Dwarf, burly and grim, with dark brown hair and a curling moustache. He was - as were most Dwarves - armed to the teeth, but Tauriel took no offense. It seemed to be a part of their culture.

“Are you here for me?” she demanded.

“I am here to escort you,” the dwarf answered, inclining his head slightly. “Your people are being taken directly to see King Thorin, and he thought perhaps you would prefer to join them.”

Tauriel studied the Dwarf for a moment, then nodded her head. “Your King is considerate,” she answered. The Dwarf inclined his head again and turned, leading the way down the stairs.

“My name is Fari,” he said. “I suspect I’ll be seeing quite a lot of you until this wedding is over, so we might as well become acquainted.”

“You are to escort us, then?” Tauriel asked. It would not sit well with Thranduil to be given a minder, but it would not go amiss. She had confined herself to her rooms since she’d arrived, both because after his words upon her arrival she had not wished to speak with Legolas, and because she was daunted at the prospect of trying to find her way in Erebor alone.

“Something like that,” Fari answered. “I am one of the vanishingly few among my people who speak your language, so--”

“So you will spy on us,” Tauriel interrupted. Fari turned his head and gazed at her. His eyes, she noted, were silvery grey. 

“I will assist you,” he corrected gently. “Surely there will be nothing worth reporting to King Thorin, as you are all here as guests at a wedding.” One bushy eyebrow quirked and Tauriel clenched her jaw. She would have to warn Thranduil and Athriel as soon as she could; regardless of what was said, she knew they would be displeased knowing that a Dwarf could understand them.

They continued in silence after that, taking new corridors and steps and bridges. Though she did not trust him, Tauriel was glad for Fari’s presence. He stepped unerringly and the sight of his armor was more than enough to deter the curious from following after them and staring at her. It did not stop their talk from reaching her sharp ears, but there was nothing for that. She simply kept her eyes fixed forward and a neutral expression on her face.

They reached a final walkway and Fari stopped, planting his feet and waiting. He no longer tried to converse with Tauriel, for which she was both pleased and disappointed. She felt distinctly awkward speaking with the Dwarves, especially here, especially after she had tried so hard to forget the way they had looked, the sounds of their voices. To be surrounded by them now seemed the cruelest joke.

A set of doors at the end of the walkway swung wide and Thranduil’s party passed through. Athriel, her arm laced through her husband’s, raised her other hand and called out. “Tauriel! Glass nín gen achened! _It is my joy to see you again._ ” Thranduil turned his head slightly and Tauriel brought her hand to her chest, clashing armored fist against breastplate. His eyes snapped to her face, unseeing.

“Iston i nîf gin. _I know your face_ ,” he murmured, stepping forward and cupping her cheek. His gestures were unerring, his focus absolute. Tauriel could not imagine what it had cost him to leave his halls, to leave Mirkwood, where he knew every step of every pathway and moved as though he saw what lay before him. There were only four who knew: Athriel, who was his queen; Legolas, who was his son; Elrond, who had healed his burns; and Tauriel herself, who was the captain of his guard and like a daughter to him.

Only four who knew, and only three here to help him keep his secret: Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood was blind, and had been for many thousands of years.

“Êl síla nan lû e-govaded vín. _A star shines on the occasion of our meeting_ ,” Fari murmured, bowing low. Thranduil started and swung his head towards this new voice.

“A Dwarf who speaks our language,” he said softly. “How very strange.”

“My father was a trader,” Fari said, straightening. His voice was cool, but still respectful. “He insisted that we learn as many languages as we could keep in our heads. I turned out to have a particular talent for it.”

“I suppose Stonehelm sent you to meet us,” Thranduil said. His expression changed not at all but his displeasure was evident.

“Fari is to be our escort,” Tauriel broke in. Thranduil’s lip twitched and Athriel, hyper aware of her husband’s mercurial moods and sharp tongue, pinched him on the wrist and smiled graciously at Fari.

“Glass nín le govaded. _It is my joy to meet you_ ,” she murmured, inclining her head. Thranduil stiffened, clearly furious that his queen should use a reverential form of address for a mere Dwarf. Athriel’s eyes met Tauriel’s and a moment of silent communication passed between the two of them. Thranduil had been like a father to her after her own parents had been killed, but Athriel was mother, teacher, confidant, and friend, and they understood each other very well.

“I believe that King Thorin awaits us, brannon nín, _my Lord_ ,” she said, bowing respectfully at the waist. Thranduil made a soft sound in his throat that may have been disgust or may have been impatience. Out of the corner of her eye, Tauriel saw Athriel pinch him again, hard enough to leave a red mark on his pale skin.

“Then we shall not keep him waiting,” Athriel said smoothly. Fari nodded and turned, leading them down the walkway and through another set of doors. A thin bridge arched across a deep chasm and at the end of it sat a throne. Tauriel had been in this room once before to deliver her king’s message. That time, it had been only her and Thorin Stonehelm. Now, there were many more Dwarves arrayed around the dais that held the throne.

Thorin she knew from before. To his right, dressed in clothes much the same as those they had worn when last she saw them, were Legolas and Gimli. She glanced at Legolas but refused to meet his eyes fully. There was much between them that needed to be said, and much which had been said that should not have been. That short glance was all she needed to know that he greatly wished to run down from the dias and embrace his parents. Only propriety stopped him.

As they reached the foot of the dias, Thorin stood and descended. A murmur, quickly quieted, rippled through the company of Dwarves. Tauriel knew little of Dwarven custom, but from the scandalized looks on the faces of the others, Thorin had just done the unthinkable. 

“King Thranduil,” he said, and his rich voice rang through the throne room. “And Queen Athriel.” He bowed at the waist, deep and respectful, and Tauriel’s estimation of him rose. “Your presence graces my halls beyond measure.”

“You are too kind, King Thorin,” Athriel replied. “I have never had a Dwarf bow to me, much less a Dwarf King.” Thorin straightened and smiled winningly at her, thinking it a compliment. But Tauriel, well versed with the subtleties of letting Thranduil see without his eyes, recognized it for what it was. Many varied emotions passed across Thranduil’s proud face at this revelation and then, with infinite grace, he and Athriel bowed also. The rest of the elves followed suit without hesitation.

“I hope that this evening you will dine with me,” Thorin said. “But I am sure that you wish now to go to your rooms and rest and speak with your son.”

“You are very thoughtful, King Under the Mountain,” Thranduil murmured. “I am pleased to accept your invitation.”

“Fari will show you to your rooms,” Thorin said, gesturing to the Dwarf, who stood beside Tauriel still. “She speaks Elvish, so if you feel more comfortable conversing in your own tongue, she will have no difficulty understanding you. I will keep your son only a moment, and then he can come meet you.” And then they were being ushered out of the throne room. In the rattle of armor and the tramping of feet, Tauriel was able to lean over to Fari and whisper sharply.

“ _She_?”

But Fari only laughed softly and moved to the head of the company, and Tauriel could not question her further.

***

“The rooms are suitable,” Thranduil pronounced. His fingertips drew along the wall, so delicate that no furrow was left in the tender moss. He had been pacing the room carefully, criss-crossing as he learned the layout, the irregularities of the floor, the placing of the furnishings. The room to which he and Athriel had been guided was many times larger than Tauriel’s and contained, in addition to a huge bed, a wardrobe, a vanity with a gleaming mirror, a table and chairs, and a shallow pool full of warm, crystal clear water. Fari had explained that it was supplied separately from the fish pond, and they could feel free to bathe in it.

Athriel had accepted this suggestion happily and was reclined in the pool with every indication of pleasure on her face. “I think they’re quite lovely,” she purred. “Come, wash the dust out of your hair.”

Before he could reply, there came a rapping at the door. Athriel glanced towards it mildly and Thranduil ignored it completely. And Tauriel, who knew well what was behind it, answered hesitantly. Legolas met her eyes. There was no hardness in his expression now, no fury in his eyes. After her arrival and their audience with Thorin, she had said some unkind things to him and he had responded in kind. They had not spoken since, and it had been the loneliest two weeks of her life.

“Naethen. _I’m sorry_ ,” she whispered as he passed into the room. His fingers flicked out, touched her wrist gently.

“Henion muinthell nín. _I understand, sister_ ,” he murmured, and the iron bands were released from her heart. A different heaviness altogether gripped her when the Dwarf followed Legolas into the room and she turned to look at Thranduil in horror. 

He had definitely heard the Dwarf enter the room; there was no possible way he had missed the ringing of heavy boots against the stone. He showed no outward sign, did not acknowledge Gimli’s presence at all. “Ion nín. _My son_ ,” he murmured, stepping across the floor. His hand was outstretched in greeting, but Legolas did not take it.

“Speak in the Common Tongue,” he said. “Gimli does not yet understand much of our speech.”

Thranduil stopped and slowly lowered his hand. There was a smile on his lips, but it was cold and small and angry. “I had hoped to speak with you alone,” he murmured.

“We are not alone,” Legolas answered. “Mother is here and so is Tauriel.”

“They are your family,” Thranduil said smoothly.

“Gimli is my husband.” Legolas said it with a cold finality and a spasm of pain passed across the elf king’s face. The Dwarf, who had stood as still as a statue next to Legolas, reached up and brushed the palm of his hand with thick fingers. Legolas curled his hand around them and faced his father defiantly. 

“Stop,” Athriel ordered, her voice ringing through the room. She had risen from the pool and Tauriel hurried to take her a robe. Though an elf would think nothing of being naked in front of her family, it was clear from the mortified expression on the Dwarf’s face that casual nudity was not a part of his culture. “I am tired of this. The two of you will stop fighting this instant or I will lock you inside this room until you can speak civilly to one another.”

“Athriel…” Thranduil’s tone was low, warning, but she did not heed him. Instead, she turned to Legolas and embraced him, kissing his cheeks. After a moment, he returned the gesture, wrapping his arms tightly around her and burying his face in her shoulder. When he released her, there was an expression of relief on his face, tinged by trepidation.

“Mother,” he said, turning to the Dwarf. “This is Gimli son of Gloin. My husband.” There was a fraction of a second in which Athriel hesitated, long enough that Tauriel noticed it but not long enough to give insult. A smile blossomed on her face and she bent her knees, sinking into a graceful crouch so that her eyes were level with Gimli’s.

“I am happy to meet you, Master Gimli,” she murmured. “We have heard many stories of your valor in the war, and I am relieved that my son has given his heart into such capable hands.”

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” the Dwarf answered, resting a hand on his heart and bowing deep. “You and your people do me great honor in traveling to my home. I hope you will not find our hospitality lacking.”

Tauriel watched with an ache in her heart, old sorrows come back to trouble and plague her. Athriel opened her arms, drew the Dwarf close, and after a moment, he returned the embrace. She kissed him on his cheeks the way she had done to Legolas, then stood back up, a gentle smile on her face. Tauriel pictured herself and a different Dwarf, dark haired and young with a foolish smile and gentle eyes, and she wondered if Athriel would have been so quick to embrace him.

She lifted her eyes as Athriel rose and found that Legolas was watching her. There was a profound sorrow in his eyes which she wanted dearly to beat out of him, and something far, far worse: pity. She turned away, angry with him again, and missed much of the conversation. The blood roaring in her ears was so loud it strangled out all other sound.

Tauriel breathed deep, tried to remind herself that it was not his fault nor his doing. Legolas was innocent in the matter, save for the unfortunate bestowing of his affections. She did not begrudge him the love he had found, nor was she so selfish as to believe that he should have forgone it, as she had. He was braver than her and, after all, a prince and so accustomed to getting his own way. For all that Thranduil and Athriel treated her as a daughter, Tauriel was ever aware that they were not her parents and her standing with them could be jeopardized by the smallest misstep. 

Some of her anger was rooted in jealousy. Why should Legolas be allowed to love a Dwarf? And why, now that there was precedence, now that the barrier between them had started to crumble, why could she not now go to him and confess her heart and live happily if only for a short time? Images flashed through her mind too quickly for her to shut them away: a laughing face, the brush of his fingers against hers, the way his hair had flown as he swung a sword, the blood on his lips as he lay dying in the dirt beside his brother.

She closed her eyes and bit down on her tongue and gradually the memories faded. It was a curse of her people to live ever in two worlds, that of the present and that of the past. To an elf, who lived all the years of the earth, the hurts of centuries past were as raw as an open wound. The life and death which plagued her had faded from the world only sixty years ago, a blink in her lifespan; she could still, she felt, reach out and wrap her fingers in his hair if she stretched her arm far enough.

And Legolas, thoughtless creature, had not remembered.

“That is a fine jewel on your hand, Master Dwarf,” Athriel said. Still she stood, wrapped in a robe with her damp hair trailing down her back. She looked more a wild forest spirit than an elf queen, but there was a regalness in her grey eyes, a certain pride in her bearing. Tauriel, trying to channel her thoughts down other paths, turned her eyes to Gimli’s ring and gasped softly.

A jewel gleamed there the likes of which she had never seen. It was smooth and oval and set in gold. At first she supposed it had no facets, but when she looked closer, she saw that there were hundreds, every one of them tiny and perfect, designed to catch the light and reflect the beauty within. Through the center of the jewel ran three veins of light, silvery gold and gleaming so beautifully that they seemed braided of sunlight and stars.

“It is the greatest treasure of my house,” Gimli said, gazing down at the jewel with devotion plain in his eyes. “I finished it only yesterday. No gems seemed fit, but I think I have done my Lady justice. Perhaps one day I will be fortunate enough to meet her again and share with her my humble art.”

“Your Lady?” Thranduil asked, so softly.

“Aye,” the Dwarf answered. “The jewel contains three hairs from the Lady Galadriel’s perfect head. It was her parting gift to me when we left Lorien, and I prize them more highly than gold.”

“Galadriel gave you her hair?” There was a queer note in Thranduil’s voice, almost as of respect. “I had heard you were named Elf Friend, and it seems that is truer than I thought.” Tauriel, who knew well the old tales of Galadriel and Feanor and the pride of them both, stood in awe of the Dwarf who, until now, she had reckoned common indeed.

“Perhaps you will get your wish sooner than you think, Gimli,” Athriel said, casting a cool glance at Thranduil. “My husband has invited nearly every elf in Middle-earth to this wedding. Among them, I believe, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.”

“ _Ada_!” Legolas exclaimed, and he began to speak rapid Elvish, berating his father for turning his wedding into a spectacle. Gimli, who understood no word of what was being said, only stared at Athriel in a sort of transported wonder, eager joy shining in his bright eyes. Thranduil held up a hand, stopping the flow of Legolas’s words.

“Speak in the Common Tongue,” he murmured, a smile twisting his mouth. This, then, was his little coup, his only triumph. Stonehelm had warned them that Thranduil meant to bring along half the world, and it seemed he had spoken true. Tauriel had not realized that he had extended invitations so widely. Messages had been sent to Imladris, and to Gondor, but if one had gone to Lorien, it must have been dispatched in secret or after she’d left for Erebor.

Legolas’s mouth snapped shut, though fury still shone in his face. In spite of her anger with him, Tauriel felt pity for Legolas. They had grown up as brother and sister, and the situation in which he found himself was unfortunate and not entirely of his own making. The Dwarf clearly did not understand the root of the disagreement; it seemed in his culture they made a spectacle of their unions, and to invite guests was ordinary. 

“Legolas?” he murmured. Thranduil smiled faintly and Tauriel’s pity extended to Gimli.

“My father is mocking us,” Legolas grated. “I thought that when Thorin said that he had invited many guests he had misspoken. Surely, he meant only the guard that he would bring from Mirkwood. But it seems I was wrong and the King was right”

“Mocking us,” Gimli repeated, still confused but growing grim.

“Your people believe a marriage should be celebrated. Mine believe a ceremony is ostentatious and that it rings false.” He turned to Gimli then, pleading with him to understand. “I agreed to do this because I want you to be happy, but every elf that comes will believe that we are trying to legitimize a false union by asking others to witness it. Do you see?”

“Elrond’s daughter was married,” Gimli argued.

“And Elrond’s household was present,” Legolas countered gently. “Because it was proper for him to see his daughter away, and because it showed respect for Aragorn’s people. But he did not call others to witness it.” He looked up at his father, angry and distant and deeply sad. “He did not mock her.”

“Nor do I mock you,” Thranduil said with relish. “But if you intend to do this thing, I will see it done in the eyes of all our people.”

“So that I cannot take it back?” Legolas stepped close to his Dwarf, lifted his chin defiantly. “I would not, not if all the powers of the world hounded me for a thousand thousand years.”

“Come,” Gimli said, quiet but no less proud. “We should be going. There are things to prepare.” They turned as one, Legolas tall and graceful, Gimli short and powerful, the two of them moving in concert. They mirrored each other’s body language in a manner that spoke of their union more clearly than any words they could offer. Tauriel wished that Thranduil could see the love they bore for each other, but his eyes had been sightless for long centuries. All he had were words, and the cold finality of the door as it closed behind them.

“You will lose your son,” Athriel warned, crossing to the vanity. She began to brush the water from her long hair as she watched Thranduil in the mirror. Tauriel, who in happier times had brushed it for her, did not offer to help.

“My son is a proud fool,” Thranduil answered, but his voice had grown heavy with regret.

“He learned it from his father,” Athriel said. Silence fell between them, broken only by the soft hush of the brush in Athriel’s hair.

“Tauriel,” he said suddenly, turning his face to where he knew she waited. “Go after him. Speak with him. Calm his temper. You were ever better at it than I.”

And Tauriel, who had seen the truth of Legolas’s heart, bowed her head respectfully and answered, “No.”

***

They descended from the elven chambers without speaking, though the way Legolas gripped his hand said everything. His arm was like an iron bar, rigid and immovable, and his face, when Gimli looked up at it, was fixed in a frozen expression of fury and shame. He longed to stop Legolas, to hold him close and tell him that it would be all right. But no amount of words could soothe the hurt done by a parent, and so Gimli let him walk, guiding him gently until they were nearly to the main road that led out of the mountain. There, Legolas stopped and spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I am behaving very poorly today.”

“I think, in this case, it is warranted,” Gimli answered dryly. “It’s your father who should be apologizing.”

“He never will,” Legolas snapped. “And I know his mind. He thinks that by doing this, he will make me realize that I am being foolish. That I will renounce you and come home.”

“And will you?” Gimli asked.

“No!” Legolas was emphatic, his eyes fierce and bright. And though Gimli had never doubted him, nevertheless the swiftness of his response brought a measure of peace to Gimli’s heart. Some of the fire faded from Legolas’s eyes and he smiled sadly. “They will not come, at any rate. Aragorn, perhaps, and Arwen, because they are our friends. And Elrond, too, so that he may see his daughter.”

Gimli’s heart sank a little at the news that Galadriel would not make the journey, though he had told himself back in Thranduil’s chambers that a lady such as she would not venture from her woods for the wedding of two whom she hardly knew. But this was no time for his hurt feelings or sorrows. Legolas looked near to tears, and Gimli reached out, covering his love’s hand with his own.

“Do not let him worry you so,” he soothed. “By the standards of my people, he has made this wedding far more significant, not less.” That brought a faint, watery smile to Legolas’s face, and he turned his hand to squeeze Gimli’s fingers.

“We are caught, it seems,” he murmured. “I should simply have come to Erebor with you.”

“Aye, and then we might have had a small wedding and told your father that it was too late,” Gimli laughed, leaning close to kiss the corner of Legolas’s fine mouth. “But what’s done is done, and after all of the things we have seen and done, I believe that we can weather this as well.”

There was a scrape on the rocks behind them and Gimli turned, expecting to greet a passing dwarf. Instead, he met Tauriel’s eyes; she stood hesitantly and her gaze was unguarded, but still Gimli said nothing. When last they’d all spoken, she had said hard things to Legolas, called him thoughtless and hasty and cruel, and mocked him for dressing as a dwarf would. Legolas had hidden his distress at her harshness, but Gimli had seen it and chafed at his inability to close the rift.

“Hello, Tauriel,” Legolas said softly. He had not turned around, but likely he had identified her footsteps several minutes before Gimli was even aware of her. Vaguely annoyed by elves in general, Gimli turned back around, his eyes tracking Tauriel as she left the path to join them.

“I am sorry about your father,” she said, crouching across from them. She was pretty enough in an elven sort of way, with a cascade of coppery hair that - if it was as rare in elves as in dwarves - marked her as a great beauty. Gimli did not see it; her cheeks were too smooth, her features too fine. She looked like Legolas, and yet not at all, for Gimli knew Legolas’s heart and mind, and so appreciated the beauty that shone through his rather queer features. Tauriel he knew not at all, and so she remained strange to him, gangly and unattractive.

“It is not your place to apologize for him,” Legolas answered.

“Then I am sorry for my part in it,” she said, stubborn. “I have caused you pain and I regret it. It is my own sorrow that causes my harsh words, and you do not deserve it.”

They shared a long look then, Legolas and Tauriel, communicating silently the way only brother and sister could. They were not related by blood, but as elves reckoned, they were as good as siblings; when her parents had died under Athriel’s watch, the Queen had taken Tauriel under her protection. All of this Legolas had shared the night of her arrival as they lay in the dark and contemplated what Thorin had told them. Gimli saw it now and was jealous, just a touch, of the centuries they had been together, the shared stories and memories. Even if he lived to be a venerable old dwarf like Dain Ironfoot, still he would have only a fraction of that time with Legolas.

“It is behind us now,” Legolas sighed finally, leaning over to rest his cheek on the top of Gimli’s head. Gimli wrapped an arm around his strong, slim waist and held him fast.

“He sent me to make peace with you,” Tauriel said. A faint smile teased the corners of her mouth. “I told him no.”

Legolas laughed, surprised into mirth. “And was he very angry?”

“Furious,” she confessed. “But I did not stay to listen. Your mother will soothe him, though I may find myself a lowly ranger again.”

Legolas chuckled and silence fell between the three of them. The elves were comfortable in it, Legolas with his eyes closed, leaning on Gimli, and Tauriel with hers open, looking around in bright interest. She twisted, watching dwarves and Men walk up and down the road, knots of greeting and conversation forming eddies in the neverending flow. Gimli, though accustomed to Legolas’s silences, did not find this one particularly pleasant, but he did not feel it was his place to disrupt it. The ways of elves were strange to him, but he would respect them. That, at least, he could do.

Suddenly, Tauriel gave a violent start and half rose to her feet. Legolas was instantly alert, springing up and hurrying over to crouch beside her. “What is it?” he asked. “What did you see?”

But Tauriel was sinking back down to ground, her gaze troubled and distant. “It was nothing,” she murmured. “I thought I saw someone, but it is impossible.”

Legolas sank to the ground beside her and pulled her into an embrace. At first, she resisted him, murmuring under her breath in Elvish. He replied in kind and she sighed and collapsed against him, her face twisting in remembered pain. Legolas’s voice took on the tenor of a question, and Tauriel nodded. 

“When your father and his friends came to Mirkwood, there was one with them,” Legolas said softly, addressing Gimli. “A young dwarf, dark of hair.”

“Quick to smile,” Tauriel added, her head on Legolas’s chest, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “He laughed at me. He was… lovely.” There was a catch in her voice, a note of regret so heavy that it pained Gimli to hear. He nodded solemnly. 

“I know him,” he said. “Kili, Thorin’s nephew. He was not much older than me when they left, and I was but a child. We played together, learned to fight together.” Tauriel raised her head, reached out a hand to him. Gimli hesitated, then took it. Her fingers were long and smooth and cool like the branches of a willow, but she gripped him with astonishing strength.

“Tell me about him,” she demanded. “I only knew him a short time before he was lost. Please, tell me what he was like.”

“But… why?” Gimli cast a confused look at Legolas, who in turn simply stared steadily until the pieces fell together inside Gimli’s mind. 

“Did he know?” Gimli asked, astounded. He could not imagine that Kili had been at all aware; he’d been a good, sweet boy with a sharp eye and a quick tongue, but never clever like his brother.

“I did not tell him,” Tauriel answered heavily, and Gimli understood. All of her anger towards Legolas, the hard things she had said to him, the spite in her eyes when she’d gazed on the two of them: all of these things were born of regret and envy. She had loved and let it pass her by for the sake of her people, and from what he understood of elven ways, she might never love again.

“Come,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. Legolas followed, graceful as always. “We should walk while we speak of him. There is someone that you must meet.”

***

They passed through the gates of Erebor and made their way down the wide streets to the city of Dale. Tauriel had not looked much on it when she’d passed through on her way to Thorin Stonehelm, and she drank in the sights now. The jumble of yellow houses with their red tile roofs, the cobblestone roads that slanted up and down and all around the hills. The bright gardens, the cool fountains, the cats that slept in sunny patches and the dogs that raced children through the streets. It was a place of joy and industry, but still she could see the scars the dragon had left. The trees were all very young, the houses freshly painted. Here and there were symbols and words daubed on benches or stones or buildings, the scrawled names of those who had died of the dragon’s fire.

Gimli led them up a hill and down a cul-de-sac. At its end sat a tall, narrow house. From the street, Tauriel counted three levels, and she suspected there would be a basement as well. Many of the windows stood open, and from them issued a cacophonous noise. Alarmed, she looked at Legolas, but he only smiled and shrugged and said, “Children.”

A dwarf woman answered the door as soon as Gimli knocked, kicking it aside with her foot and staring at them as she wiped her hands on her apron. She was covered in flour and wore a grim expression, as though she had just been doing battle. “The children are baking,” she stated, stepping out onto the porch with them and closing the door firmly behind her. “Best not go in there.”

“Shouldn’t you watch them?” Tauriel asked, brow furrowed in concern. Elf children did not require much minding unless they had particularly troublesome natures - she was nearly three hundred years older than Legolas and she recalled clearly that he had been an unholy terror - but she’d been led to believe that the children of humans and dwarves were considerably more fragile. There was a piercing shriek from inside that was abruptly cut off. The dwarf looked over her shoulder with an expression of profound disinterest. 

“Dwalin is there,” she shrugged. “He’ll batter them and fry them up if they make too much of a mess.” She settled herself in a chair and pulled out her pipe. They waited patiently as she lit it, Gimli claiming another chair, Legolas and Tauriel leaning against the porch railing. Blue puffs of smoke escaped the dwarf woman’s lips and she sighed softly, dark eyes studying Tauriel’s face.

“Well, then,” she said finally. “I suppose there’s some reason you’ve brought an elf maid to my house.”

“Do you recall the story that Bofur used to tell?” Gimli asked her. She snorted and shook her head.

“Bofur tells a great many stories,” she murmured.

“The one about when they came to Lake-town,” Gimli said, testing her reaction. “And he missed the boat.” She frowned at him in confusion but, as she recalled the details of the story, understanding lit her eyes, understanding and cold, old pain.

“You’re the elf girl, then,” she said softly, turning back to Tauriel. “Come here, girl. Crouch down so an old woman doesn’t have to stand.”

Frowning, Tauriel did as she was bid, kneeling in front of the strange dwarf, wondering why she should know or care anything about Lake-town. Rough, powerful hands cupped her face, tilted it this way and that. Dark brown eyes met Tauriel’s own and a spark of recognition kindled in her, quickly growing to a full conflagration. She gripped the dwarf woman’s wrists and stared at her fiercely.

“You are his mother,” she stated. Her voice trembled, just slightly, and all of the air escaped her lungs when the dwarf nodded.

“I am that,” she said solemnly. “My name is Dis, child. What is yours?”

“Tauriel.”

“And is it true?” Dis searched her face, gaze bright and hard. “Did my son love you? Or was Bofur imagining things again?” Broad thumbs stroked Tauriel’s cheeks tenderly, a motherly gesture to wipe away tears that were not there. Tauriel closed her eyes. “He is a terrible old romantic, Bofur, and he often sees things which are not there.”

It was an escape, if she wanted it. Dis was offering her a graceful exit, a chance to bow out once again, to deny her own heart. For a moment, she was tempted. Whatever she said now would be the final tale; Legolas and Gimli would never mention it again. Dis would let her go, would stop staring so hungrily into her eyes. And Tauriel could lock away her memories, make herself hard and cold and proud, like the mountain.

“He saw truly,” she said. “Your son loved me, and I loved him.”

“Oh child,” Dis breathed. Tears sprang into her eyes, fell down her cheeks and into her beard. She leaned forward and kissed Tauriel on the forehead. “Oh, you sweet, sweet child.”

And then Dis was drawing her closer, bringing her into a tight embrace, and her sturdy body was rocking with powerful sobs. It was as if something broke inside Tauriel, like thin ice snapping beneath a weight, and she fell into the cold depths of her own hidden sorrow. She did not know how long they stayed that way, two women of different worlds sharing their tears, seeking comfort in the very different loves they had borne for the same young dwarf.

When Dis finally leaned back, wiping her red eyes with the back of her hand, Legolas and Gimli were nowhere to be seen, and Tauriel was glad for it. She was not ashamed, but there was a fragility to this peace she and Dis had found, and though they meant well, Legolas and Gimil would have shattered it.

Dis relit her pipe, puffing slowly and closing her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was raw and quiet and weary. “You do not know how much comfort you bring me,” she sighed. “It eases my poor heart to know that my Kili at least knew love before he died.”

“I am sorry I could not give him more,” Tauriel murmured, bowing her head. “I am sorry I could not save him.” 

Dis rested a hand on her head, her rough fingers carding gently through Tauriel’s silky hair. “It isn’t your fault, child,” she chided. “You could never have saved him. I knew when I sent him out the door that he would not come back to me.” She drew a long breath of smoke, exhaled it in a huge puff. “He was too young to be a member of the Company, he and Fili both. I had hoped for Fili to come home to me. He was much like his father, steady and clever and good. He would have been a fine King Under the Mountain. But Kili was a sweet fool and barely a man.” Her voice grew suddenly tight and bitter, and her fingers gripped mercilessly. “I begged Thorin not to take him. I begged him to leave me one child, but he took them both and I can never forgive him for that.”

Tauriel watched Dis’s anger flare and then die back down; it happened so quickly, the fire of her rage banking back down to a slow, even burn. It must be a constant companion for her, in much the same way as sorrow haunted elves. Anger, she supposed, must be more productive for dwarves; what sense in sitting silent for a year, turning the sadness over and over in your mind, when you could use your fury to fuel your short life? Tauriel took Dis’s hand, held it tight.

“It may not be any comfort to you,” she said, “but as long as I live, so too will your children. I will remember them every day and speak their names before I rest at night, and in my memory at least, the sons of Dis will endure.”

Dis gripped Tauriel’s chin, tilted her head back. Her eyes, fierce and dark, examined minutely every detail of Tauriel’s features, ending finally in a stare that would have caused even Athriel’s heart to beat a little faster. “My sons’ names are carved in the stone of the mountain,” she said softly. “Their likenesses were chipped out of solid quartz and polished until they gleamed like stars and then set on their tombs. I go there sometimes and I touch their carved faces and I _remember_ them. So you need not worry on that count, child; the dwarves have far longer memories than you elves give us credit for.”

Her fingers tightened suddenly, fiercely, and Tauriel sucked in a sharp breath. Even as old as she was, and even though she was no warrior, Dis’s grip was like a steel trap, powerful enough to splinter bone if she had exerted but a little more pressure. Her fingers loosened, though, and fell into her lap, and her gaze became weary and sorrowful.

“Instead, remember their voices,” she said, softly. “Remember the way the sun caught in Fili’s hair and the way Kili’s eyes wrinkled at the corners when he smiled. Remember the way they danced and sang, and the way they wanted so badly for their uncle to be proud of them. Remember that Fili would have been a fine king, and Kili would have been a fine husband.” She sighed and rubbed a hand across her face, standing abruptly. “Remember all of the things that we could not capture in stone, the little things, the important things. I’m afraid they fade in my mind a little more every day. Soon, I will have nothing but cold statues for sons.”

“But,” she finished, resting her hand on the door, “if I know that at least one person in this world remembers them as they were, sweet and handsome and fierce, then when I die I will do it peacefully.”

She left Tauriel on the porch, hands in her lap, tears streaming down her face, and she stayed there until her sorrow dried up and she could force herself to her feet and go in search of Legolas and Gimli.

***

They spent their days together after that, Tauriel and Legolas and Gimli. She learned to find her way through Erebor, from her rooms to Gimli’s home, and out of the mountain to Dale. She ate with his family and shopped in the markets with Legolas, though she did not embrace dwarven fashion to the same degree as he had. Still, she soon found herself with necklaces and rings and twisted wire cuffs for her pointed ears. They took her to a dressmaker who measured her and helped her choose fabrics and listened attentively as she and Legolas described elven styles. Four days later, she had two beautiful gowns and three new sets of robes, all done in soft greens and grays and touched with delicate beadwork and embroidery.

“They work so fast!” she’d exclaimed, running her fingers along a blossoming vine that traced the cuff of a robe. “It would take me weeks to do this.”

Legolas had laughed at her. “When have you ever embroidered anything, Tauriel?” he teased. “Sticking orcs and spiders full of arrows does not count as needlework.”

She still found Erebor very strange, and many of the dwarves were off-putting, the way they spoke so loudly and seemed always to be moving. The only quiet and stillness she discovered was in her room at night, and then she would sit on her balcony and breathe in the cool night air and clear the confusion from her mind.

She had not spoken with Athriel or Thranduil again since she’d walked out of their rooms, nor had they summoned Legolas to them. There were rumors, though, and there was Fari, who found the three of them sitting just outside the gates one day, watching people flow in and out of the mountain. Tauriel and Legolas amused themselves by making up tales about the travelers; this one had come all the way from Gondor, that one was going to meet her love, the one with the big sack was smuggling jewels out of Erebor, replacing them with bits of glass so cunningly fashioned and polished that the craftsmen he’d stolen them from would never know.

“You’ve obviously never seen a dwarf handle a jewel,” Gimli groused. Legolas laughed and kissed him on the top of his head.

“It is only a game,” he chided. “We do not doubt the cleverness of the dwarves.”

Suddenly, a dwarf broke away from the steady procession and began to trot across the courtyard to where they sat. As the figure drew closer, Tauriel noted that it was Fari and frowned. She was still displeased that Fari had not seen fit to introduce herself as a woman, and that she had laughed at Tauriel’s surprise upon finding out. But Gimli smiled as she approached, standing and holding out an arm which Fari clasped companionably. They greeted one another in Khuzdul and Fari sat, smiling at Legolas and Tauriel and nodding her head in greeting.

“I was hoping to find you,” she said, sounding a bit breathless. “I have been very busy running around after the King and Queen, but they are taking dinner with Thorin and so I stole an opportunity.”

“How are they faring?” Legolas asked, endeavoring to sound light-hearted and failing. Fari glanced at him keenly, but answered in a neutral, friendly tone.

“Very well,” she said. “They are satisfied with their accommodations and I have been showing them the wonders of Erebor. They have been to see our forges, our markets, the tombs of the Kings, some of the more easily accessible mines…” Legolas nodded forlornly and Fari smiled, sympathetic. “Your father asks after you every day, and your mother takes great pleasure in reminding him that were he to apologize, he could ask you instead of me.”

Gimli laughed softly and a more genuine smile bloomed on Legolas’s face. Tauriel did not ask if the King and Queen had inquired after her; she had been disobedient and disrespectful and it would be a wonder if she were allowed to resume her post as captain when this was all over. Perhaps, if she begged forgiveness, but it was not in her nature to beg, nor in Thranduil’s to forgive, and so she had been considering what to do with herself after her people departed Erebor.

“Have you any news for us?” Tauriel asked. The talk of Thranduil and Athriel had reminded her of her predicament, and she was not inclined to kindness towards Fari anyhow. She wanted the dwarf to leave, that they might go back to their games, that she might continue to pretend that Erebor held a future for her as well as for the brother of her heart.

“No,” Fari said, arching a bushy eyebrow. “I simply thought that the young prince would like to hear of his parents.”

“As I did.” Legolas inclined his head politely. “And I thank you for your trouble, Master Dwarf.”

“Better to call her Mistress,” Tauriel snapped. “Your messages have been delivered, Fari. Leave us be.” Gimli and Legolas stared at her in astonishment, but she paid them no mind, fixing her eyes instead on the dawning amusement on Fari’s face.

“Ahh,” she said. “Is that it, then? You are angry because you did not realize I was female until Thorin told you?”

“I am angry because it is rude not to say!” Tauriel cried. Fari laughed softly.

“Is it my fault that you cannot tell?” she asked. Tauriel ground her teeth.

“I have seen dwarf women before,” she said. “You do not look like a dwarf woman.”

“By dwarf women, do you mean Gimli’s mother? Or the Lady Dis?”

“Both,” Tauriel snapped. “And many more besides, in the markets and on the road and in Dale.” She leaned forward, gestured to the steady flow of people that moved in and out of the gates. “There is one, and there, and there!” She picked them out easily, dwarf women who wore clothes much the same as the men, and who styled their hair and beards much the same as the men, but who still bore distinguishing curves, breasts and hips and a slight narrowing at the waist. They had softer, rounder cheeks, and an indefinable aura of the feminine. Nothing like Fari, who still confounded Tauriel’s perception by being angular and flat-chested.

“And what about her?” Fari asked, pointing to a merchant in rich robes. No breasts, no hips; Tauriel had assumed masculinity and she stared in astonishment as Fari continued to point. “Or her, or her? It is not so easy as you suppose to tell what lies between a dwarf’s legs.”

“And some of you are simply born this way?” Tauriel demanded, outrage coloring her tone. Fari exchanged a deeply amused glance with Gimli and said gently:

“We are all born this way.”

Thunderstruck, Tauriel turned to Legolas, her eyes darting ever so slightly sideways as she considered Gimli in light of this new information. The dwarf roared with laughter and slapped his legs. “Don’t stare at me so, lass,” he chuckled. “I am male, and if you doubt, ask your sweet prince.” Spots of color appeared in Legolas’s cheeks, and Tauriel snorted, entertained in spite of herself.

“So,” she said. “You are all born looking like men?”

“We are all born looking like dwarves,” Fari corrected gently, and Tauriel frowned. “You elves and humans are too concerned with your genitals. We only care what a dwarf can _do_ , not what gender they are when they do it.”

“As do we!” Tauriel protested. “My people do not hold males and females to different standards. What one can do, so might the other, and there is no shame in it.”

“But you must always know what they are,” Fari pointed out. “Or else you would not have gotten so angry with me.” Tauriel turned her face away, confused and ashamed and annoyed. She did not know how to answer Fari, or even if she should.

“I am curious now,” Legolas interrupted, leaning forward. “Why do some of your women look female and some do not?”

“The ones you see, the ones that you think look female, are simply dwarf women who have borne children,” Fari explained. “If a woman becomes pregnant, she develops extra fat to keep the baby warm, and breasts to feed it when it is born. They never really go away after that.” She shrugged, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“How are we supposed to know, then?” Legolas asked, worry lines marring his perfect brow. “I do not wish to offer insult.”

“You won’t,” Fari assured him. “Many female dwarves live their entire lives being called ‘he’ by outsiders, and by other dwarves when speaking with outsiders. Men have strange ideas about a woman’s place, and we haven’t the time or the inclination to educate them.” She shrugged eloquently. “Much easier to simply say ‘he’, since you lot and the Men insist on gendering everything anyhow.”

“And you do not?” Tauriel demanded.

“We do not,” Fari answered firmly. “Khuzdul has no word for male or female, only the word for dwarf. We have no he or she, no gendered jobs like King and Queen, or husband and wife. We are rulers and partners, miners or smiths or warriors. We are not even mother and father, not as you know it. The word for mother in our tongue is a variation of the word that means to nurture or protect. It is the same as the word for a cave.” She grew very solemn then, and Tauriel listened, fascinated. “There is no gender assigned to it; a dwarf man can be a mother just as easily as a dwarf woman. It is the bearing of the child that shapes the body, but the body does not raise the child. Do you see?”

And Tauriel, who had seen Thranduil cradle an infant Legolas close against his chest, his white blond hair falling like a curtain to seal them away from the outside world, nodded her head in understanding. 

“Let me offer my apologies,” she said, holding out a hand to Fari. “Your customs are new to me, and I gave you insult. I hope that you can still think kindly of me, and call me friend.”

Fari leaned in close, clasping Tauriel’s wrist and smiling gently. “Aye, that I can do.”

The ground seemed to shift, then, the slightest ripple that rolled beneath Tauriel as she sat. She thought it only her imagination until she saw the subtle shift of expression on the faces of the dwarves. Both Fari and Gimli had grown suddenly alert, even tense. “What is it?” Tauriel asked.

“Earthquake,” Gimli answered, standing. The rest followed suit. “There hasn’t been one in centuries…” Tauriel and Legolas exchanged a look, frowned. There were earthquakes in Mirkwood from time to time, and though they could be frightening, they were not often any bigger than the one which had just occurred.

“Is it a problem?” Legolas asked, bemused. 

“It might be,” Gimli answered, stepping towards the gates. “Come, we should go and speak to the king.” Fari was already hurrying along the path, and the elves had no choice but to fall in behind them.

***

The journey from Rivendell to Erebor was not a particularly long one, not as one judged those sorts of things, but to Erestor it felt as though it took a lifetime.

He had not wanted to go in the first place, pointing out (rightfully) that Thranduil was only trying to embarrass his son and that they should have no part in it. Let Elrond go if he so chose; Lady Arwen would be there with her new husband, and so it was only natural that her doting father should seize the chance to see her again. Elrond had been sad and quiet since they’d returned from Gondor anyhow, and a change of scenery would do him good. And, naturally, since he was going, he ought to take a handful of his household with him, his sons and his steward and perhaps a few warriors, as the old Forest Road through Mirkwood was not entirely safe.

Erestor had never intended to go himself, however. There were things that needed doing at home, and he had been quite looking forward to the peace and quiet he would be afforded with both Lindir and Glorfindel out of Imladris. Elrond likely intended to sail into the West sooner rather than later, which meant there were books to catalogue - some to be kept and brought along, many more to be dispersed into the world - and heirlooms and keepsakes to be divided up and distributed. If they were gone a full week, the traditional length of time for a dwarven ceremony, then when the travel times were factored in, there and back, he should have the better part of a month in blissful solitude, untroubled by either his younger brother or his eternally bothersome husband.

They had both come to him (separately, of course, for Lindir had never quite approved of Glorfindel and seemed always to find ways to avoid him) to beg his company two days before the expedition. Lindir had wrung his hands and fretted over how he was to keep everything organized.

“Of course, leaving will be fine, I have already arranged everything,” he’d said. “The gifts are packed, the food is set aside, the clothing is… well, they are all responsible for their own clothing, but I have taken the liberty of packing some suitable robes for the ceremony itself-”

“For everyone?” Erestor had interrupted, amused. Lindir had frowned and nodded impatiently.

“Yes, of course,” he’d said. “For everyone. I’m concerned with the return trip, however. We shall have to take provisions from Dale and Erebor, and I have heard that dwarves are notorious for giving gifts at weddings. What if they give us something bulky, or heavy? We cannot refuse, but we certainly cannot bring it back, not unless we procure extra pack horses in Dale, or else bring extra with us. But that will seem greedy, will it not? Erestor, you must come, I cannot do this alone!”

And he had escorted Lindir out of the room, chivvying him with gentle little pats to the shoulders and back, all the while speaking in his most soothing voice. “You will do fine, little brother. Elrond trusts you, he asked for you specifically, you are a very clever elf and an excellent steward and I am sure you will be fine.” And Lindir had gone away, muttering to himself, counting on his long fingers as he attempted to calculate all possible outcomes.

Glorfindel had come to him later that night, pushing open the door to their shared chambers and simply standing there, arms folded across his chest. He was an extraordinarily handsome elf, broad across the chest and shoulders, long of limb, with keen eyes the color of a summer sky and bright golden hair that fell past his waist. They had been married since very nearly the beginning of the Third Age, long enough that they had learned one another’s little habits and quirks, but not so long that Erestor could look at him without his breath catching just a little. And not so long that Erestor did not daily lament the weakness that had brought him to this marriage.

“What do you want, Glorfindel?” he’d asked, bending over a scroll on which he was writing the initial list of books to keep. “I am very busy right now.”

“What makes you think I want something?” Glorfindel had asked.

“Because you are leaning in the doorway, and you only do that when you expect me to leave my desk and come ask you what you want,” Erestor answered. “I haven’t the time for it tonight, so this will have to suffice. What do you want?”

Glorfindel had clucked his tongue, the sound he made when he was displeased, and he’d crossed the room, powerful hands resting on Erestor’s shoulders, stroking up the sides of his neck. Strong fingers gripped his jaw, tilted his head back, and he was looking fully into Glorfindel’s face, lovely as summer, and his pen fell from his hands.

“I wanted to spend the evening with you,” Glorfindel murmured. His thumb caressed Erestor’s lower lip and in spite of himself, Erestor opened his mouth and nipped at the digit. Glorfindel smiled and it was like the sun had risen. “I shall miss you desperately while I am away.”

“Oh, all right,” Erestor had snapped, standing up and coming around the desk to be enfolded in his husband’s arms. “I’ll go with you, then.” Glorfindel had laughed, of course, and protested that he hadn’t meant that at all, but Erestor was no fool. He knew perfectly well that Glorfindel could not possibly get along by himself for almost a month.

Which was how he had come to be astride a horse for the better part of the day and curled up on the ground for the better part of the night, annoyed beyond tolerating by Lindir and abandoned by Glorfindel, who had been sent to scout ahead for virtually the entire duration of their time in Mirkwood. They were joined, briefly, by some of their Mirkwood cousins, who feasted them and sang songs and drank wine around a great bonfire, which seemed to Erestor a very poor idea indeed if the woods were as infested with spiders and orcs as he’d been led to believe. He’d mentioned as much to Glorfindel and been shushed for his trouble.

“Darling, this is their home,” he’d said, pressing a goblet of wine into Erestor’s hands and a kiss to his forehead. “If they say it is safe, it is surely safe.”

So he’d been cajoled into drinking enough wine that he relaxed and laughed and even assisted Glorfindel in bullying Lindir until he gave them a song. His little brother was passionate about order and rules, and Erestor had often thought it a pity that he was not more artistically inclined. Lindir had a beautiful voice, high and soaring and capable of infinite, subtle shades of emotion. 

“Do you think he sings so perfectly because he has no feelings otherwise?” Erestor had whispered, his breath ghosting into the perfect shell of Glorfindel’s ear. The wine and the dancing flames had gone to his head, and Glorfindel had laughed, lifted him off the ground. They’d gone into the woods, where the shadows dripped like water and starlight filtered down in tiny pinpricks to dapple his skin where Glorfindel laid him out on the mosses and leaves.

Between the throbbing in his head and the ache in his bottom, the next day’s ride was entirely unpleasant and Erestor had still not quite forgive Glorfindel for it.

Finally, they had reached the last leg of the journey. Erestor could see Esgaroth on the Long Lake and further on, nestled against the feet of the great mountain, the rebuilt city of Dale. In the times before the dragon Smaug, Erestor had come here often, trading for books and rare plants. He wondered if it were the same, if the streets bore their old names and ran along their old paths, and a heaviness settled in his heart.

“Where on earth do you suppose we’ll sleep once we get there?” Lindir fussed. The journey had not seemed to have any effect on him at all, apart from his hair, which he wore braided tightly back away from his face, a concession to necessity. 

“I’m sure they have it settled already,” Erestor answered wearily. “Thranduil is many things, but a poor host is not one. Besides, his queen is with him.”

“Athriel will be there?” Lindir visibly relaxed and began, instead, to chatter away about dwarven customs and whether Erestor supposed they would be expected to conform to them. “I read,” he said, in a hushed tone, “that they get drunk and fight each other as part of the celebration!”

There was a ruckus from the front of the line, and Erestor rose in his stirrups to discern the source. It seemed centered around Elrond, and for a heart-stopping moment, he was certain that something untoward had happened to their special guest. But Glorfindel was riding down the line, laughter on his face, and Erestor subsided, frowning. Asfaloth executed a neat turn and fell in beside him, arching his powerful neck. Absently, Erestor reached over and stroked the horse’s nose.

“What was all that?” he asked. 

“Oh nothing,” Glorfindel answered. “There was a bit of a tremor, but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry over. This place used to be known for that sort of thing.”

“Yes, back in the First Age,” Lindir said peevishly. “When it was still an active volcano.” Glorfindel regarded him steadily for a long moment until Lindir flushed and his lips thinned so far that they vanished. The two of them had never particularly gotten along, much to Erestor’s continued irritation.

“I felt nothing,” he said. Glorfindel smiled and took his hand, lacing their fingers. He was ever fond of touching in some little way; rarely were they together and his fingers were not occupied with Erestor’s hair or hands.

“It was only a little thing,” Glorfindel answered. “I barely felt it myself.”

He finished speaking just as chaos erupted from the front of the line, and he had a split second to wonder what all the fuss was about this time when the earth heaved beneath him and he was nearly pitched from his horse. Fear clamped viselike hands around his throat and he leaned close over the neck of his mount, breathing in the familiar warm smell of horseflesh as the ground shuddered and rolled beneath them. His horse danced, ears flattened, but it kept its feet and he stayed in the saddle and gradually he realized that the shaking had stopped and that the roaring he heard was only his own blood, rushing in his ears.

Glorfindel’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back to an upright position. There was no fear on his face, but he was alarmed and disturbed. “I’m fine,” Erestor assured him before turning to check on Lindir.

His brother was white as a sheet but clearly unharmed. All of them, it seemed, were well. Some had fallen or jumped from their horses’ backs, but all of the animals were sound and apart from a few scratches, so were the elves. Brushing off Glorfindel’s hands, Erestor rode to the front of the line and reined in beside Elrond. 

Elrond’s face was grim and troubled, and Erestor allowed himself to hope that they would turn back. It would be worth the journey if only he were back with his books and lists. But Elrond motioned and the company began to move again, flowing around the two of them as they conversed.

“What do you suppose caused it?” Erestor murmured. Elrond shook his head slowly.

“Perhaps the mountain is becoming active again,” he said. “Though I do not doubt the dwarves would have noticed before now.”

“But would they abandon it again so soon after winning it back?” Erestor asked. Elrond frowned at him swiftly.

“Thorin Stonehelm is, by all accounts, a wise ruler,” Elrond answered. “He cares more for his people than for his treasures. If he knew the Lonely Mountain was unsafe, he would not allow them to stay.” There was a long silence, and then Elrond spoke again, softly this time. “I wish I could bring myself to say that it was only an earthquake, but my heart is full of foreboding, and I very much think that a strange wedding is not all that we will find within the halls of Erebor.”

Not much comforted by his lord’s words, Erestor nevertheless fell in behind him, head bowed in thought as they rode down out of the forest to Dale and the gates of Erebor.


	3. Between The Rocks & The River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lord Elrond arrives with a special guest, Legolas and Gimli receive a gift, apologies are made, and new fears are awakened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after three years, here's another chapter.
> 
> To everyone who kept reading this and leaving me comments, even though I hadn't updated in forever, this one is for you. Without that background of encouragement and love I never would have come back to this, and this story is very dear to my heart. Special shoutout to Fat Cat, who commented about a week ago - the comment that you left spurred me into action and produced this chapter; I wish you had an AO3 account so I could let you know how much I appreciate you, but hopefully you'll read this chapter and see this note. :)
> 
> And as always, HUGE thanks to the best beta in the world, lamentforboromir. She jumped back in after three years and did an amazing job, so any wonkiness that remains is my fault, not hers. And thanks to my amazing wife, flatbear, who puts up with me shutting myself in the room for entire days so that I can write about elves and dwarves smooching.
> 
> As always, this chapter of the fic is full of headcanons. I should also note that I started writing the fic before Battle Of The Five Armies came out, and some of the stuff that I had already mentioned doesn't fall in line with the canon of that film. (For example, Athriel, but fuck Legolas having a dead mom, I hate that shit.) So while bits and pieces of this are drawn from the first two Hobbit movies, don't be too concerned if you see something that contradicts the third. I hadn't seen it when I wrote the first two chapters, and I'm not going back now for the sake of matching canon that's not even Tolkien canon anyway. :p
> 
> Lastly, if you're on Tumblr and you enjoy all this nonsense, you might want to check out my new Tolkien blog, [The Lonely Mountain](https://the-lonely-mountain.tumblr.com/). I'll be talking about the fic, expanding on my headcanons for dwarven culture, and whining about writing. Also, I'd be happy to field any questions you might have about the fic, or about Tolkien stuff in general because it's basically all I think about anymore.
> 
> Anyway, thank you guys SO much for sticking it out with me. I hope you enjoy the chapter. <3

The arrival of Lord Elrond’s party was thus:

The streets of Dale were cleared out to make room for the procession, for Elrond had brought all the best of his house along to honor the young couple. Elrond himself rode at the head of his party, clad in robes of deep blue with a circlet of silver set upon his head. To his left rode his steward, Lindir of Imladris, who wore robes of cerulean trimmed in black and silver, and had braided his dark hair after the fashion of the Silvan Elves, with whom he claimed kinship through his father. To Lord Elrond’s right rode Glorfindel, late of Gondolin and now of Rivendell, and even those Men and Dwarves of Dale who did not know him were struck by his presence, for Glorfindel had seen death and been returned from it and the favor of the Valar shone in his eyes.

Behind them rode one score elves of Imladris clad in shining armor and bearing the banners of the various houses which made up the party. At the head of all these were Lord Elrond’s personal banner and the banner of Glorfindel, upon which shone the Golden Flower of Gondolin. Flanked by these warriors rode the rest of Elrond’s companions, some ten or so Elves who were chosen to come due to the beauty of their poetry and songs or the cleverness of their craftsmanship. There came also five more horses, laden with gifts and favors.

From one of the high bridges overlooking the entrance to Erebor, Tauriel watched as the procession wound its way to its destination. From up high, she could see a smaller figure, nestled amongst the elves in the center of the group, and her heart raced a little faster. “Look there,” she said, pointing down at the crown of stark white hair which bobbed like a dandelion amongst the taller forms. “That is no elf.”

Dis, who had joined her to watch the procession from on high, narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “I see it, child,” she said. “But my eyes are not so strong as yours and I cannot tell who it might be.”

“It could only be one person,” Tauriel answered, but she was silenced by a blast of horns from Erebor. They watched as King Thorin’s emissaries marched out to meet Lord Elrond, arrayed in finely lacquered armor in a dazzling array of colors. The Dwarves were ever warlike in their presentation, though each one of the welcoming party wore a red peace tie on their weapons, securing them in their various sheaths and harnesses. The head of the party, a dwarf called Hurim, was King Thorin’s most trusted advisor, and wore much simpler armor, merely an engraved breastplate under robes of darkest red.

Accompanying this impressive array of dwarves were Gloin and Rona, dressed in their finest clothes, and in their ears, around their wrists, and upon their fingers glittered fine jewels that Rona had selected and mounted herself. Gloin wore an axe strapped to his back, peace-tied as all the weapons were; nevertheless, he was leant a certain gravity by carrying it, and Tauriel suspected that it was the axe with which he had helped to take back Erebor. They walked at the front of the procession, just behind and to Hurim’s left.

To Hurim’s right stood Thranduil and Athriel, and Tauriel gazed at them wistfully. Still they had not spoken to her, though Athriel had caught sight of her a day ago and had smiled and flashed the hand signals that the rangers in Mirkwood used as a means of silent communication. _Continue on_ , her slim fingers had said. _Danger is past._ Tauriel took that to mean that Thranduil regretted his actions, and yet she had not gone to see them yet, too put off by the immensity of her own disobedience.

They looked as regal as ever, towering over the dwarves with whom they marched. They walked arm in arm, both wearing robes of silvery green and brown, and unlike when they had arrived, neither went armed or armored. Tauriel recognized it for the subtle insult that it was - coming into Dale and Erebor, they were coming into the home of their enemies, but marching out to meet Lord Elrond’s party, they were among friends once more. To the Dwarves and Men, however, she was sure that they simply appeared as they were, a King and Queen of Elves. Thranduil’s crown rose behind him, vivid in autumnal colors, and Athriel’s flashed as they walked into the sunlight, its amber accents like gold against her dark hair.

Hurim stepped forward and spoke with a booming voice, and it was easy enough to hear him, but Tauriel had heard speeches before. Her attention was focused rather on the small figure, which was making its way to the front of the procession. The Elves moved their horses out of the way, smiling, and when Bilbo Baggins emerged from the group to rein in beside Elrond, Hurim’s words were lost in a roar of delight.

Gloin shouldered past the other Dwarves, opening his arms wide. Smiling, Bilbo dismounted from his shaggy pony and embraced the old dwarf, murmuring something to him that made Gloin laugh loudly. The elves looked on with indulgent smiles, even Thranduil. Everyone was focused on Gloin and Bilbo, but Tauriel, who had trained herself to be aware of her king at all times, saw Athriel give Thranduil a slight nudge. He stepped forward, spreading his arms wide and smiling down at the elderly hobbit.

“Master Baggins,” he said warmly, crouching and taking the hobbit’s hands. It was a show of profound respect, such that Tauriel was struck with awe. Never had she seen her king behave in such a way to another creature. “It brings me great pleasure to see you here.”

“Thranduil!” cried Bilbo, wringing the Elvenking’s hands. “It _has_ been a long time! Elrond tells me that it is your son who is getting married! Congratulations!”

For a moment, Thranduil’s expression froze and Gloin’s twisted into something like a grimace, but the cheer on the wrinkled face of the hobbit was too much to be overcome by their displeasure, and soon Gloin let out a booming laugh and Thranduil’s face smoothed once again into a smile. Tauriel sat back, bemused, and Dis clapped her on the shoulder.

“Have you never witnessed the power of hobbits, lass?” she asked. Tauriel shook her head. There was a strangeness in Dis’s voice, almost an edge of bitterness, but Tauriel had learned that the dwarf woman’s mood could be mercurial and so she did not think to question it.

“I did not realize that so many held him in such great esteem,” she admitted. Elrond’s party, powerful and important elves all, waited patiently to be acknowledged. Judging by the look of good humor exchanged between Elrond and Glorfindel, it was clear that they had expected this to happen. Even Hurim, who had been rudely interrupted by the little reunion, seemed happy enough to let them be.

It continued for some time, Gloin and Thranduil taking turns conversing with Bilbo and avoiding one another. Rona had moved to speak with Hurim and Athriel to greet Lord Elrond, both women conscious of the disruption their husbands had caused with this show of affection. The dwarves, it seemed, did not mind the disruption; they seemed happy enough to focus their attention on Bilbo, who was, admittedly, a hero in their eyes. The elves, Tauriel was not so certain of. Elrond and Glorfindel seemed profoundly unbothered at being ignored, but some of the other elves, Lindir included, were beginning to grow impatient.

And then, interrupting the reunion, a fanfare blew from deep inside the mountain, the sound of it getting closer and closer to the entrance. Tauriel and Dis turned, both determined to get a look at the cause of this new ruckus, and Dis drew in a sharp, surprised breath. There, at the center of a diamond made by four of his personal guards, came King Thorin III himself.

A ripple passed through the dwarves that were there, and the humans who understood their customs. Even Tauriel, who had only been among the dwarves a short time, knew that the King did not leave his throne, visitors were brought before him no matter how important they thought they were. For Thorin to come all the way out of the mountain was unheard of, and yet here he stood, grave and regal, at the gates of Erebor.

Bilbo’s smile faded slowly and, freeing his hands from Thranduil’s grasp, he walked over to where King Thorin stood and bowed at the waist. “I knew a dwarf named Thorin once,” he said softly, so softly that even Tauriel had to strain to hear him. “I was lucky enough to call him friend for a time.”

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, his rich voice warm with emotion. “Master Burglar. It is because of you that we may again call Erebor our home. It is a great honor to have you once again walk our halls. I hope in time, you will come to call me friend as well” And he pressed his closed fist to his chest and bowed deeply to the little hobbit.

A sound like a sigh went through the dwarves that had gathered to watch and one by one they mimicked Thorin’s gesture, all but Gloin, who rested a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and gazed on him with such tenderness that Tauriel’s heart ached. She turned to look at Dis, wondering what the old dwarf thought of such a display.

Dis had not bowed, nor was she joining in the revelry which had broken out below. Voices raised in song and laughter drifted up to where they stood, high above Erebor’s entrance, and Dis stood like a statue, her proud face twisted with emotion. There was pain there, which Tauriel had expected; Dis could not look upon the hobbit without remembering her sons, and that was a wound which would never close. But there was fury on her face as well, and a blackness that was almost like hatred.

“Dis,” Tauriel said, softly at first, and then louder when Dis did not turn. “Dis! Are you well?”

The dwarf woman gazed at her for a long time, steely eyes picking out Tauriel’s features as though memorizing them. “No, my girl,” she said finally, sighing. The darkness drained from her eyes and ran out of her features, leaving her old and sad and tired. “There is much that troubles me, and nothing I wish to discuss.”

“I will not press you,” Tauriel said, reaching out to take Dis’s hand. It was hard like a rock, and when she squeezed back it felt as though Tauriel’s fingers were being crushed between two stones. “But I will listen, should you change your mind.”

“You’re a good girl,” Dis sighed. She turned to go, releasing Tauriel’s hand as she did. “I should go check on the children before someone sees me up here and tries to drag me into the celebration.” A faint smile touched her lips, bitter and sad. “I’ve little wish to speak with Master Baggins just now.”

And she departed, leaving Tauriel alone to gaze down on the festivities and wonder.

 

***

Erebor had ever been a busy place, housing markets and stores, inns and workshops on the uppermost levels and, as the city descended into the mountain, mines and smithies and homes, and markets housing even more fine dwarven wares. Legolas had been there for nearly a month now, and though he had little trouble finding his way around the maze of bridges and roads near the home of Gimli’s parents, once he moved past a certain point the labyrinthine connections of avenues and archways confounded him.

It was worse now that the wedding preparations were in full swing. The markets were a dizzying blur of activity, craftsmen filling orders for clothes and jewelry and weapons and instruments. Some of them would be used as gifts, for while Dwarves were not often moved to give gifts - as Gimli explained, unless it was given for one of a handful of reasons, a gift was seen as insulting, an intimation that the receiving dwarf could not afford or create whatever it was on his own - when they did so, they did it with an extravagance that still took Legolas by surprise. Rona was caught up in the frenzy, so busy of late that she had barely emerged from her workroom, and when they were at home their conversations were punctuated by the soft rapping of her delicate hammers.

“Should we be worried about getting gifts for anyone?” Legolas had asked, bending down to whisper into Gimli’s ear. A gang of young Dwarves had just dropped off an intimidating mountain of packages in all sizes and shapes, and Legolas was beginning to grow nervous. Elves gave gifts rarely as well, but when they did the gifts were of great significance, chosen to reflect the needs and personality of the recipient. That sort of thing took time and thoughtfulness, and he had precious little of either left. But Gimli had patted his hand and kissed his fingertips.

“No,” he’d said, “my parents will do that for us. We have other things to attend to.”

And so they did. There were fittings for their wedding garments, one new set of clothes for each day of the celebration, and each one more lavishly decorated than the last. Their tailor, one of Gimli’s many cousins, had rapturously displayed for them the bolts of cloth that he’d purchased especially for them. The fabric was finely woven, each one shimmering in a beautiful spectrum whenever it moved. 

“Your clothes,” he said, laying out the samples in a neat line for Legolas to inspect, “will go from a dark forest green to a pale gold that is almost white. I have plans for that, you’ll see.” And he had winked and patted Legolas on the arm and began shouting at his assistants to hurry. Gimli was given the same treatment, the same progression of colors, but his would start at pale gray and shade to deepest midnight blue.

Besides that, they had to coordinate with jewelers, plan the feast, hire musicians - though it was well understood that most, if not all, of the Dwarves at the wedding would sing or play their own instruments, the musicians were meant to act as shepherds, guiding the chaos down appropriate paths. It seemed to Legolas that much of the planning fell along those lines. They had to choose who would share their table without offering insult, and who would be asked to make speeches. And although Gimli assured him that, as this was an entirely unprecedented wedding, less attention could be paid to more traditional customs, Legolas found himself fretting over table settings and centerpieces until he was nearly sick with worry and stress.

All of it served as a distraction from the earthquake, which Thorin assured them was nothing more than an anomaly, but which was being thoroughly investigated nonetheless. Legolas had wanted to argue, to shake the dwarves and demand that they do something more, but Gimli assured him that sending an exploratory team, as Thorin had done, was the only reasonable course of action. In a mountain full of mines, the occasional upset was not uncommon, and it was likely simply the result of an old mining tunnel collapse or something of that nature. Still, Legolas could not shake the uneasy feeling that the earthquake had kindled in his heart.

Gloin, ever observant and surprisingly tender-hearted, noticed his strange new son’s unhappiness and quietly made a few inquiries. Funds were diverted, workers rerouted, and three days out from the feast that would begin it all, he tracked down Legolas and Gimli.

“Come now, lads,” he’d boomed cheerfully, chivvying them out the door. “Stop your planning and worrying for a moment. I’ve an early gift for the two of you!”

Legolas, who felt as though he had not rested in a fortnight and had not seen his betrothed in twice as long, reached down to grasp Gimli’s shoulder. The solid muscle there, the warmth of his skin through his clothing, calmed the elf somewhat. Gimli’s fingers found his, brushed against them. Though he did not show it as much, Legolas knew that Gimli felt the pressure of all this as keenly as he did. There were lines around his warm eyes that had not been there before, and more often than not his thick brows were drawn down in consternation over some detail that had been previously overlooked.

Even now, as they made their way through Erebor’s shining streets, up and up and up, past the main gates, past the rooms where the parties from Mirkwood and Imladris had been housed, even now Legolas could think of a dozen things to which he ought attend. But Gloin had been so kind to him of late, guiding him through so many tricky financial matters with a smile and an air of infinite patience, that Legolas felt he at least owed it to Gloin to see what this early gift might be.

One glance at Gimli revealed him to be equally puzzled, and with good reason. Though he had not by any means memorized them, Legolas had seen several maps of Erebor since coming to the city, and he knew of no rooms this far up the mountain. Indeed, the way had grown narrow, the walls rough and unhewn. It was so unlike the angular beauty of the city below them, and yet there was a wild loveliness about it, a sense of discovery as they moved further along the passage. 

Legolas smiled as Gimli’s blunt fingers trailed along the raw rock, skipping across faults and rough planes. It was the same way that he might touch the trunk of a tree in an unfamiliar forest, an exploration but also a greeting, acknowledging its newness while taking comfort in its sameness. His chest grew tight and tears, which he quickly blinked away, sprang into his eyes. Never had he expected to love someone so deeply, and no songs or stories or beautiful poems could have prepared him for moments like this one, when the world seemed too small to encompass the emotions that coursed through him like blood. His fingertips brushed Gimli’s bright hair, so lightly that Gimli did not even feel it, but enough that Legolas was comforted.

There was a short flight of steps carved into the stone, and into the steps in turn were carved a series of runes. Some of them, Legolas could read on his own, such as the symbols that made up the Khuzdul words for _protection_ and _prosperity_. Most of the others were a mystery to him, but it looked as though they had been freshly carved.

Just beyond the steps was a door, tall enough for Legolas, wide enough for Gimli, but just barely, as though whoever had fashioned it had measured them carefully first. It was made of silvery oak banded by iron, as were most of the doors in Erebor, but carved in its center was a sigil that Legolas did not recognize. The seven stars of Durin described a graceful arc over and through a pair of branching antlers into which were woven leaves of oak and ash and autumnal berries. Around this central picture, dwarven knotwork twined, similar in fashion to the tattoos which coiled along Gimli’s arms and shoulders.

“Your mother and I wanted you to have a place to go,” Gloin said, laying his hand upon the door. “We know you will not stay here in Erebor - the two of you are young and there is much still to see in the world now that evil has been driven from it.” He looked at them, a certain wistful sadness in his eyes, as though a part of him lamented that he had settled down and grown old. “Still, we want you to visit often. This was meant to be a gift during the wedding, but we agreed that you lads could use a little peace and solitude well before that.”

And he clapped Gimli on the shoulder and gripped Legolas’s forearm and left them alone, high inside the mountain. They stared at one another for a long moment, Gimli thunderstruck and Legolas torn between laughter and tears.

“We ought to go in,” he said finally and Gimli could only nod in agreement and push open the door.

Inside, it was as lovely as Legolas had come to expect. The ceiling was vaulted high above their heads and accented with beams of the same silvery wood that made the door. Twined around the beams were creeping vines, dotted all over with white and yellow flowers. Water trickled down the far wall in a cool, clear fall, pooling in a wide basin before hurrying its way down the little streambed that curved around a corner of the room and then disappeared back into the mountain.

On the opposite wall a wide hearth was situated, and before it were set two chairs, one to accommodate Legolas’s tall frame and one to suit Gimli. There was a long table with six chairs, and a bookshelf, and finely woven rugs on the stone floors. Legolas moved slowly through the large room, trailing his fingers along the cool gray walls, wondering when he’d grown accustomed to dwelling inside a mountain. It all seemed so cozy now, so right. Gloin was correct, they had not intended to stay in Erebor, but if they had this place to return to, Legolas would not mind coming back for regular visits.

An anomaly along the far wall caught his attention and Legolas smiled, privately pleased with himself. There was a door there, cut at a particular angle in the rock so as to make it appear invisible. It was a favorite trick of the dwarves, or so Gimli told him, and one had to either know the door was there in order to see it, or else have a keen eye for subtle differences in the stone.

“Gimli!” he called. “Over here! There’s another room.” Gimli turned, his gaze raking the wall until he saw what Legolas had discovered. When next he glanced at Legolas, there was a heat in his eyes that had not been there, a mingled pride and possessiveness that made Legolas flush in pleasure.

“I was wondering where they meant us to sleep,” he said, crossing the room to join Legolas. The elf slipped through the door first, expecting to find a room decorated very much like the first, with warm rugs and solid furniture, but he stopped short so that Gimli bumped into him as he came into the room.

“What are you doing?” Gimil grumbled, patting at Legolas’s hip with his broad hands. “What is it?” And then he, too, was arrested by the beauty of the room.

It was a natural cave, and likely the reason the house had been built at all, for the walls of the bedroom were a series of natural formations, beautifully formed and alien. Crystals protruded from the walls, carefully excavated just enough that they would show, catching the light of the lanterns and holding it deep inside so that they seemed to glow. Gimli murmured in Khuzdul, hand laid over his heart at the sight of such natural wonders, but Legolas’s gaze was fixed above them.

Set high above them, in the slanting stone ceiling, was a thick pane of glass. There appeared to be a chasm in the mountain face, some fault that likely could not be seen from the front, but which had allowed whatever craftsmen had constructed the room to carve out a wide window. From behind the glass, far past the peak of the Lonely Mountain, the stars winked down on Legolas Greenleaf and he, who had not laid eyes on them in many days, wept, both because of the beauty of those far away lights and because of the nobility of dwarven sentiment. Gloin and Rona had known precious little of elves before he had come to claim their only son, and now they had given him the finest gift he had ever received.

“Your mother,” he said, helpless. “Your father.”

Gimli took his hand and held it tight. “I know,” he answered, and they stood like that for a long while, staring up at the stars. So many times over the course of their travels, the two of them had slept under these same stars, at first as far from one another as possible, and later wrapped close around one another, as though if they let go the other might vanish. Long after Gimli would fall asleep, Legolas would stare up into the night sky, naming the stars and silently entreating them to guide the two of them safely through strife.

“It is very beautiful,” Gimli said. “Like a bottomless lake with lights gleaming deep down inside.”

Legolas laughed. “Must you always think of things as deep?” he chided. Gimli chuckled and shrugged.

“Elves look ever upwards,” he said, resting his hand on the small of Legolas’s back, “and dwarves delve ever deeper. It is our nature, I suppose.”

“We are not so much like the rest of our kin, though, are we, Gimli?” His voice sounded strange to him, far away. There had been moments like this in Mirkwood, perched high in the branches of the trees, his eyes fixed on some distant star that seemed to him to be slowly turning in the infinite velvet black of the sky, moments when he’d spoken to Tauriel or to his mother and his voice had seemed so small in the face of a beauty so large.

“No,” Gimli answered, and his voice seemed deep and secret and as solid as the stone on which they stood. Legolas leaned against him even as Gimli pulled him close, their lips meeting tenderly for a moment, then again, and again, eagerness growing with every kiss.

Gimli led him to the bed and laid him out on soft sheets and for a timeless period, they were one. It was so different now than the first time, when Legolas had pulled Gimli away from the aftermath of battle, when they had touched one another as though they might never do so again. They moved more slowly now, taking their time to learn what one another liked. Gimli was vocal about his preferences, guiding Legolas’s hands, gripping his hips, praising him in a rough voice. It had taken Legolas longer to do the same, both because Gimli was his first, and only, lover and because the entire act itself was so fraught with emotion that to talk about it, even in the midst of it, seemed wrong somehow.

But Gimli was patient and, like all Dwarves, he did not wish to do a thing that he could not do well, and during their time together, short though it had been, he had discovered ways to make Legolas squirm and cry out, and when Legolas raked his nails across Gimli’s broad shoulders, there was a light in the dwarf’s eyes like the glow of the forges that ceaselessly worked deep within the mountain.

When they were spent, they lay back, Legolas’s hair spreading across the pillows like a river of gold. He thought of when he was young, and how he had watched his parents and admired and envied the strength of their love. His father had been then as he was now, a Prince of the Greenwood with his own father, Oropher, disapproving of the woman he had wed. Athriel, though distinguished among the rangers, remained only that, and Oropher had been furious that his son, Sindarin as was he, had fallen in love with a Silvan elf of no important lineage. Legolas had never known this Oropher, bitter and disappointed, for by the time he was born, his grandfather and father had mended things between them. Athriel told him once that it was because of him that they had forgiven one another. _You look just like Oropher_ , she’d told him once as she brushed and braided his hair. _That pleased him._

He and Gimli could not have children and bridge the gap that way, a fact which brought him no small amount of sorrow. He had often wondered what his children might look like, how they would sound when they raised their voices in song, whether they would be warriors or leaders or scholars. He had wondered if they might resemble him or his wife, or perhaps his father or mother, the way he looked like his grandfather. Smiling slightly, he glanced at Gimli from the corner of his eye.

“What is it?” Gimli asked, rolling onto his side and embracing Legolas with powerful arms. “You look sad.”

“I am not,” Legolas answered. “I was only thinking of things that will never come to pass.”

“You should not torture yourself,” Gimli said, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. Legolas smiled and fixed his eyes on the stars. “Things are as they are.”

“An extraordinarily dwarven sentiment,” Legolas laughed. “But you’re right. I am doing myself no good by wondering what might have been.”

“Sing me a song, instead,” Gimli said. “I like to fall asleep listening to your voice.”

And Legolas began to sing, softly at first but with growing confidence as he heard the way his voice echoed in the room, the strange rock formations channeling it back with a different tone so that it sounded as though there were many Elves in the room with him. It was an old song, one that he had sung during their travels, about Nimrodel and Amroth, and he sang it in his own language this time. It was a beautiful song, sad and strange, and soon Gimli was asleep beside him, but still he sang on, directing his words to the stars that winked above them.

Again, as he had when first he sang the song in Gimli’s presence, his voice faltered, but this time he did not stop at Amroth’s death in the sea. There was much more of the song, dark sorrowful words that spoke of why Nimrodel had fled Lorien, and the evil that the Dwarves had wakened beneath Khazad-dum. His voice dropped nearly to a whisper as he sang of it, the echoes around him dying slowly as he remembered the way the mountain had shuddered only days ago. 

He fell silent finally, the song unfinished, and the beating of his heart reminded him of the sound, deep beneath the earth, of the war drums that had hounded them through Moria.

***

Erestor, much to his dismay, found himself staying in the mountain.

There were many reasons why he did not simply take a room in Dale, as much of Lord Elrond’s party had done. Chief among these was the insistence of Glorfindel that they be as close to the celebration as possible, in order that they might assist Elrond should he require it. Erestor, of course, saw through this immediately; Glorfindel wished to stay in Erebor because it was new and interesting, and because it would afford him a chance to be nearer to Thranduil, with whom he got along worryingly well.

Erestor had agreed to these arrangements because he knew there was no sense in trying to argue with his husband. Glorfindel, wisest and strongest among the elves in attendance, was also remarkably stubborn and Erestor had learned many centuries past that when there was a certain light in his husband’s bright eyes he might as well give in because it was not an argument in which he would triumph.

Admittedly, the rooms in Erebor were lovely, comfortable and cool and fragrant with the scent of mosses and the small yellow flowers which dotted the walls. The constant sound of trickling water, though very different from the roar of the great falls in Rivendell, still reminded Erestor enough of home that he rested well. There were no stars to gaze upon here in the mountain, but the flowers were a good enough substitute, pale enough that they stood out against the dark walls when all light was extinguished.

They had arrived five days before the wedding was slated to begin, and most of Erestor’s time had been spent helping his brother with logistics. There was a young dwarf named Fari who was assigned to help them, and to whom Erestor took an immediate liking. Fari was polite and competent and spoke Sindarin as though it was his native language. He was patient with Lindir’s questions, knowledgeable about where they could find the things that they needed, and eager to work with them to make the wedding accessible to all.

“King Thranduil’s party is happy to eat much as we do,” Fari explained, walking the brothers through one of Erebor’s many marketplaces. The first, most important feast of the wedding was slated to begin in two days; it would mark the beginning of what promised to be the longest dwarven wedding in recent memory. Erestor and Lindir, baffled by the thought of celebrating something which was so private to their own people, nevertheless had resolved not to embarrass Lord Elrond in front of the guests who were rapidly gathering.

“But King Thorin has heard that some of your people do not care for the taste of meat, and so we wished to ensure that there would be food for all,” Fari continued. Erestor and Lindir glanced at each other over the dwarf’s head. Thus far, Thorin Stonehelm had proved an admirable host, very attentive to the needs of his guests. They had all presumed that they would simply make due at the feast with what dwarven foods tempted them, but it appeared that they would not be forced to compromise after all.

“We enjoy a balanced table,” Lindir answered. “Roasted meats are fine, but we also enjoy fish. Fruits and vegetables, cooked and raw. Bread and honey and cheese. I’m sure King Thranduil has sent down enough wine for us all, but Lord Elrond has brought some mead as a gift to your king, and I am certain that he would be happy to share it at the feast.”

They made their way through the market, picking and choosing ingredients, and Erestor followed, amused by his brother’s eagerness. This attention to detail and desire to exceed expectation was what made Lindir an exceptional steward, but to Erestor, who was far more withdrawn and scholarly, it all seemed very exhausting. The markets were loud, full of colors and smells that dazzled the eye and confused the senses. Dwarves and humans shouted endorsements of their wares, their voices blending into a kind of cacophony that had an almost musical quality.

And there was so much to see! The food stalls in this section of the market housed a dizzying array of choices - there were apples of every shade, from red to yellow to bright, crisp green; there were lemons and limes and oranges, brought up from warmer climes, the sharp, juicy scent of them filling the air; there was fish and beef, mutton and fowl; there were so many spices and teas that Erestor did not even know where to begin amongst the endless jars of powders, seeds, dried leaves, and pods. He saw milk and honey and eggs, flour and barley and rice. Some of the stands sold beer, some sold wine. There was fresh baked bread that ranged from a pale, sweet white to a dark, heavy brown and every flavor in between. One stall sold cakes and candies and small tarts overflowing with berries; Erestor bought one and ate as he walked, laughing as purple juice ran down his hand and stained his skin.

Beyond the food stalls were jewelers and tailors, and smithies that sold weapons or armor or shoes and barding for horses. Several shops sold musical instruments, drums and flutes and harps and a number of things that Erestor did not even recognize. There was a stall for ornaments that one wore in one’s hair from which Erestor made several purchases and, much to his delight, a long row of bookshops.

By the time Lindir and Fari were finished organizing a menu and ordering the required food, Erestor had managed to burden himself with so many new books and maps that he could scarcely hold them all. They found him picking his way slowly through the market peering around a stack of tomes and the look of utter exasperation on Lindir’s face was one with which Erestor was well acquainted.

“I could not very well be expected to _not_ buy books,” he said, as Lindir and Fari redistributed the burden so that Erestor could move unimpeded.

“I should have tied something around your waist,” Lindir answered. 

“Now you sound like Glorfindel,” said Erestor, and that silenced his brother, for Lindir did not understand why Erestor had been so charmed by an elf with whom he shared so little in common. Fari, who had been listening with a familiar smile, as though he was well acquainted with sibling arguments, interrupted to steer the conversation down more pleasant paths.

“Do you read Khuzdul, then?” he asked, indicating with his chin some of the books in the stack he carried.

“I do, but I am afraid I am not so accomplished at speaking it,” Erestor answered. “The pronunciation is… difficult.”

Fari laughed. “It does take practice,” he admitted. “I found your language challenging as well when I first learned it. Khuzdul is very abrupt, while Sindar flows from one word to the next. It is the difference between the rocks and the river.”

“An apt description,” Erestor said, beaming at the young dwarf. The more time he spent with Fari, the more impressed he was. He had never thought of himself as holding any prejudices towards the dwarven people, but each day in Erebor shattered a preconceived notion that he had not even known he held. Truly, it was a delight, for if there was anything Erestor enjoyed, it was enlightenment, even when it exposed his own ignorance.

They chatted all the way back to Erestor’s rooms, discussing the different nuances of both languages, and ending with Fari promising to assist Erestor with his Khuzdul pronunciation if Erestor helped Fari master Quenya. Lindir, impatient to begin preparations, insisted that their plans for the feast be put to Lord Elrond, from which Erestor gratefully excused himself. The stacks of new books were too enticing, and logistics were his brother’s strength, not his. Fari bid him a gracious farewell, and Erestor sighed in pleasure as the sound of Lindir’s voice faded down the corridor.

Though it was tempting to arrange the books according to how much he desired to read them, Erestor knew himself well enough to know that such an endeavor could cost him most of what remained of the day, and would likely involve lists enumerating every good and bad aspect of each book. So, in the interest of brevity, he simply selected the top tome from the nearest stack and settled in to read.

It was a book of dwarven legends written in an archaic form of Khuzdul. He had little problem translating it, though some of the words had unfamiliar spellings, thus slowing him down. As he read, he made notes in one of the many blank books that he kept for such purposes. At Glorfindel’s exasperated insistence, he had only brought the five which related to the dwarves: Legends & Lore, Customs, Genealogy, Ancient History, and Recent History. All were filled with notes and observations, and each one of those was annotated with the name and page number of the book from which they came.

The first story in the book was, of course, the tale of Durin, and Erestor had filled several pages on the minor differences between this telling and others that he had read by the time that Glorfindel came to find him.

“Melethron, _beloved_ ,” he said, resting a broad hand on the nape of Erestor’s neck, “it isn’t polite to hide in the room and read your books. We are guests here.”

“Lindir was busy,” Erestor replied, setting his pen aside and wiping spots of ink off of his hand with a damp cloth. He twisted in his chair, relieving cramped muscles, and turned his face up to his husband. Glorfindel smiled and kissed him obediently. “And I did not know where you had gone.”

“I have been speaking with Thranduil,” Glorfindel said. He perched on a rocky shelf near Erestor, his lovely face grim. “He has been fighting with his son since he came here.”

“Of course he has.” Erestor marked his place in the book and capped his ink well, aware that he would not get any more work done until that evening, when they were released from social obligations. Perhaps not even then, as it seemed Glorfindel was spiraling into one of his dark moods. He had seen so much, been through so much, but for all his power and wisdom he was still only an elf. Sometimes memories caught up with him and he fell into a deep sadness. Sometimes, as now, he would experience something which upset him and a blackness would fall over him like a shroud. Over the years, Erestor had learned to ease him back to happiness, but it took time and a delicate hand.

“Thranduil is stubborn,” he continued, softer now, reaching out to take Glorfindel’s hand. “He had his son’s life planned out for him and Legolas has defied his expectations.” This entire wedding was a punishment, Erestor knew, and he had argued against attending for just that reason. Let Arwen and her new husband come to Rivendell afterwards, if Lord Elrond so wished to see her. It was not worth it to be a part of Thranduil’s petty revenge.

But Elrond had decided to journey to Erebor, not only to see his daughter, but as a show of solidarity for the young Prince of Mirkwood, though Erestor was not entirely convinced that Legolas would see it that way. He had not seen the young elf since they arrived, save for when he and his beloved had come to thank them for attending. Legolas had seemed harried, then, embarrassed to be in the company of his own people, and he had clung to his dwarf’s hand as though he were drowning. The sight of it had been a weight on Erestor’s heart, but he felt he did not know Legolas well enough to take him aside and reassure him.

“Legolas is his only child,” Glorfindel said, his voice low. “He should be careful not to lose him.” And in his eyes there danced the memory of another child, a girl with golden hair like her father and green eyes like her mother, a girl who loved to sing and dance. A girl who had died during the destruction of Gondolin, and was now only a ghost in her father’s heart.

Erestor bowed his head and grasped Glorfindel’s hand with both of his. This past pain, a family that no longer was, had frightened him away from Glorfindel when first he had declared his love. Erestor had been raised with the truth that his people had one destined love, one other to whom they would commit their life. Perhaps it was some accident of Glorfindel’s return, or an attempt at kindness by the Valar when he was re-embodied, but his spirit was no longer bound to his long lost wife. Many long years they had played a game of cat and mouse, with Erestor always withdrawing and Glorfindel ever advancing, and though Erestor had eventually chosen to accept what he’d always known to be true, his love for Glorfindel was shadowed by the memory of his former family.

“He is not so foolish,” Erestor said, struggling for words that would console his husband and draw his mind away from painful memories. “Athriel will not let him lose his son.”

“She is a formidable woman,” Glorfindel answered, a faint smile touching his handsome features. “She, at least, knows that punishing Legolas will not bring him back.”

“Nothing will bring him back, now,” Erestor said dryly. “What is done is done, and better Thranduil realize it now when he still has a chance to make amends.” He squeezed Glorfindel’s hands, trying to communicate so much love and encouragement through such a simple gesture. It felt like too little, but Glorfindel looked up at him and a little of the darkness lifted from his brow.

“You think he will? He is like his father in his reluctance to admit fault,” Glorfindel sighed.

“He must,” Erestor replied firmly. “He and Lord Elrond are friends of old, and I am sure Elrond will speak sense to him.” Some of the worry eased out of Glorfindel’s face, not enough to satisfy Erestor wholly, but enough that he was content not to pursue the topic.

Glorfindel rose, pressing a swift kiss to Erestor’s forehead. “Come,” he said, “we are invited to eat with Lord Elrond and Their Majesties.” He tugged Erestor to his feet with so little effort that Erestor felt he weighed no more than a leaf.

“Very well!” he laughed, freeing himself from Glorfindel’s grip. “Wait a moment while I dress and we will go.”

***

Legolas had not wanted to attend the dinner.

“It will only be more of my father’s accusations, more attempts to embarrass me,” he’d argued. One of Elrond’s attendants, an elf that Legolas recognized but did not know, had brought the invitation and waited outside for an answer. Gimli, steadfast as always, had folded his arms across his broad chest and stared implacably.

“Perhaps it is an attempt to make amends,” he’d said.

“Thranduil does not make amends,” Legolas had replied bitterly, but he had accepted the invitation nevertheless. Gimli had politely declined, citing his own family obligations, and that had very nearly erupted into a new argument until Gimli had gently explained that perhaps it would be better for him to speak with his parents alone, without the antagonization of his dwarven lover shoved in their faces. And Legolas had agreed again, reluctant but knowing that Gimli was correct in that much, at least.

And so he found himself sitting at a long table that the dwarves had arranged specially for Lord Elrond, full nearly to bursting with such a variety of sweet and savory dishes that he hoped they would all be so distracted that he might eat his dinner and escape without ever having to engage in conversation. For a while, it seemed that his wish might come true; there was some polite small talk, some reminiscing, but for the most part the elves concentrated their attention on their meal and Legolas, glad for the reprieve, did the same.

It was a small party, with Elrond seated at the head of the table, flanked on the right by Thranduil and Athriel and on the left by Legolas and Glorfindel. Further down the table sat Lindir, Elrond’s steward, and Erestor, who was, as near as Legolas could tell, some sort of historian. He was Glorfindel’s husband, and he and Lindir were kin to Elrond, though Legolas knew not how. He liked Erestor, though, and listened attentively as he told them stories of the history of Erebor, founded as a colony and transformed into a kingdom after the fall of Khazad-dum.

“An interesting tale,” Thranduil said, when Erestor had finished. “They have not been here long by the reckoning of our people, and yet it seems that they have achieved much.”

There was a moment of silence so profound that Legolas’s ears began to ring. Had his father just complimented the dwarves? Beside him, Glorfindel patted his arm and leaned forward to speak.

“I have found the city to be very charming,” he said. “Our hosts are gracious.”

“And yet I find myself missing the forests,” Thranduil replied. “A mountain is no place for an elf to live.” He seemed to be concentrating on his meal as he spoke, but Legolas knew full well that his father did not need his eyes to gauge his son’s reaction.

And it was not a pleasant reaction; Legolas slammed down the knife which he had been using to slice open a baked apple, and he would have stood and strode from the room had not Glorfindel’s calming grip on his arm turned suddenly to iron. Everyone ceased eating save for Thranduil, who continued to delicately pick apart a piece of fish as though nothing had happened. Even Elrond was waiting, a stony expression on his face.

“Go ahead, ada,” Legolas said, his voice low with anger. “I am certain that is not all you have to say on the subject.”

“It is not,” Thranduil answered, finally setting his meal aside. His blind eyes locked on his son’s face, seeming to stare straight through him. Elrond started to reach out, perhaps to stop Thranduil, perhaps to interject, but his hand faltered and he withdrew. A part of Legolas was fiercely happy that he had stopped; it was past time for him to have words with his father, and the presence of other elves meant that his mother at least would have someone to comfort her when he inevitably left for good.

“Go on, then,” Legolas said. He sat straight and proud, secure in the knowledge that nothing Thranduil could say would sway him. His time with the dwarves had stiffened his resolve, convinced him that he was doing what was right. They had been so open, so warm, so unlike his own family. Many nights he had tried to imagine what his life would be like now if he had not acted on his love for Gimli. All that came to him was an image of endless, lonely nights among the trees, wondering if the one he loved looked upon the same stars and wondered as well what might have been.

“You are headstrong and foolish,” Thranduil snapped, slamming a hand against the table for emphasis. “You have hurt your mother, and you have hurt me. Does that matter to you not at all?”

“Does my happiness not matter to _you_?” Legolas demanded. Still, Glorfindel held him fast, preventing him from rising, but the hurt and the anger he had been nursing since his last argument with Thranduil rose to the surface, thick and ugly as tar. “What is done is done and yet you hound me with your unhappiness instead of trying to understand!”

“I have tried to understand.” Thranduil’s voice was low with fury, a tone which Legolas had heard him take only rarely and one which had, in the past, frightened him. He felt no such fear now, only a deep, boiling fury. “But I cannot contort my mind enough to imagine why you felt such rash foolishness was acceptable.”

“Because you refuse to see things from my perspective,” Legolas argued. “You think that you are losing me, when if I had done as you wish, I would not have been myself ever again.”

“You would not have been the first elf to forgo foolish love,” Thranduil said.

“And I would not have been the first elf to die of a broken heart,” Legolas replied.

“You think your heart will be less broken when he is gone?”

His words struck like a whip and Legolas fell back in his seat, stunned. His father had said much the same when he’d first come home, but Legolas had dismissed it then. Thranduil had not understood how serious he was, how much he loved Gimli. He had been looking for a way out of what he saw as an unfortunate accident. To say it again, now, after all of the wedding preparations and the fanfare, in front of guests that he himself had invited, it seemed a knife in the heart of whatever love he had once held for his son.

“You throw his mortality in my face as though it will change my heart,” he said finally, his voice soft with sorrow. “Perhaps you should consider instead that you and I may live forever, but I will never feel love for you again.”

The room became a blur as he stood and left, a shifting sea of frozen faces, voices that echoed in his ears but spoke no sense. His feet carried him from the room of their own accord and, sure and swift, he picked his way across bridges and down broad staircases, heedless of where he was going. Hot tears ran down his cheeks seeming to scald his skin until he was sure that his face would forever be scarred by their tracks.

He chose paths that had little traffic, tunnels and passages that wound far into the mountain. It did not matter to him if he was lost. Part of him wished that they might never find him, that he could simply find an alcove and sit among the stones until everyone had gone to their homes and let him be.

Eventually, he stopped, and eventually he sat. He had no idea where he was, nor did he care, though he worried that Gimli had heard of the argument and was even now waiting for him to return. The thought of going back held no appeal for him now, though; as kind as Gimli’s parents and kin were, they did not understand. Even Tauriel’s presence would be an intrusion now. Better that he was alone with his thoughts for a time, so that he might put them in order before returning to his beloved.

The stones were cold against his back and he leaned into them gratefully, wondering when the mountain had become a source of comfort to him. There was a solidity to it that he had found frightening at first, that immutability, that cold stubbornness. The weight of its presence was constant, but so was the quiet of its protection and the reassuring stillness that it seemed to wrap around him. It reminded him so of Gimli, of all the things he loved about the dwarf. He could be grim and unforgiving, but there was warmth deep inside as well, built upon an unshakable foundation of stone.

Comforted somewhat, he closed his eyes and rubbed his arm. It ached where Glorfindel had attempted to hold him steady and, rolling up his sleeve, he saw that the other elf’s grip had left bruises on his pale skin. Below, he heard dwarves going about their business, speaking Khuzdul to one another. He had learned some since coming to stay with Gimli, enough to pick out one or two words but not enough to know the subject on which they conversed. The sound of their voices, fading into the distance, made him feel more alone than ever before.

There was a soft scraping to his right and he turned his head, expecting to see a dwarf and hoping that they would leave him be. Instead, he saw a swirl of robes, a flash of golden hair, and he was on his feet, furious at the intrusion. Before he could speak, Thranduil held up his hands in a gesture of peace, and Legolas realized that his expression was one of contriteness. Wary, he sat back down and looked away.

His father settled on the path across from him, regal as always. It reminded Legolas of when he’d gone back to Mirkwood to tell his parents of Gimli, how his father had been sitting on the ground then, robes pooled around him. In spite of his hard words, he did not hate Thranduil, but he lacked the energy to fight with him again and again. There were more important things to which he wished to bend his thoughts. His father could come around on his own or not at all.

“How did you find me?” Legolas asked, already knowing.

“I know the sound of my son’s footsteps,” Thranduil answered placidly. “And the sound of his tears.”

“I do not wish to argue with you again,” Legolas said, ashamed at how sullen he sounded, as though he were a child being scolded for stealing sweets.

“I have grown weary of it as well,” Thranduil said, and Legolas turned to him in surprise. They were alone and so Thranduil did not attempt to maintain the illusion that he could see. Instead, he had angled his head so that he could catch every nuance of his son’s voice. It wasn’t much, but it was an attempt.

“Then why do you continue to torment me?” Legolas demanded.

“That is not my intention.” Thranduil’s hand rose, hesitant, and Legolas was so surprised by this that he allowed the tips of his father’s fingers to rest against his face. They traced his brow, felt the knot there, the tightness around his eyes, the lines which bracketed his mouth when he frowned. Thranduil mimicked the expression, something Legolas had seen him do only rarely, and only with Athriel before now.

“I know I have been unfair to you,” he continued. His hand formed a cup, curving around Legolas’s cheek. “But my cruelty is born from my own fear. You are my only child and so precious to me. I would give up everything for you, Legolas. The light of the world is no longer mine to give-” and he let slip the simple glamour that hid the milky white of his eyes “-but I would forsake all song, all food, all movement, all the love and joy I have ever felt. Do you understand? I would not just die for you, I would suffer, and I would do so gladly if it meant I could shield you from even a small amount of the pain I have endured.”

His hand shook against Legolas’s cheek and when the wetness of Legolas’s tears touched his skin he let out an animal noise of frustration. Legolas shied away from him then, dashing the tears from his eyes and setting his jaw.

“How can you say that when you have done nothing but cause me pain?” Legolas asked. Thranduil bowed his head, hiding his face behind shining golden hair. Legolas remembered the smell of it from childhood, when his father would hold him close and they would hide behind that silky veil and Thranduil would tell him stories and teach him to weave braids.

“You have always been a good son,” Thranduil answered. “Obedient, clever, respectful. Never have I been forced to reproach you but for minor infractions. I did not know what to think of such open defiance.”

“Love is not defiance,” Legolas reproached him. Thranduil lifted his head, mouth twitching in anger, but it smoothed away as quickly as it had come and he only looked sad once again.

“Not usually,” he said. “But to love a dwarf, Legolas? It is so far beyond anything that I have ever feared that I do not know how to react. We are civil with the dwarves now, but not so long ago they were our enemies. What did you think I would say?”

“I thought you might listen to me. I have travelled with Gimli. I have fought beside him and bled beside him, and a more loyal and brave companion I could not ask for.” Legolas paused a moment, watched despair twist Thranduil’s face. “You have not had that privilege. You do not know him as I do. I knew that you would be angry and disappointed. But I thought that you would give me a chance to show you that he is as good as any of us.”

“He will only cause you pain,” Thranduil said, and that, Legolas suspected, was the crux of his father’s displeasure. He had not asked Thranduil’s leave before joining the Fellowship and could only imagine the agony it had caused his parents, knowing that he was going to face almost certain death in order to help a hobbit perform a task that even the greatest among Men and Elves had not been able to accomplish. And to have him return, to feel that relief, and then learn that he had pledged himself to a mortal love, one that would grow old and die while he remained as he was, unchanging, immortal. The grief that Thranduil felt imagining that eventuality was nothing compared to Legolas’s own, which he shut away carefully so that it did not ruin the years that he had with Gimli.

“And it is my pain to shoulder,” he said quietly. “I knew the consequences when I went to him and they are consequences that I gladly accept. One year of happiness with Gimli is worth a thousand years alone.”

“Legolas…” Tears ran now down Thranduil’s face and he reached for Legolas’s hands, gripping them tight. They sat like that for a long while, Legolas still as the mountain, Thranduil purging his fears with bitter, silent tears. Finally, he spoke again.

“You are my son,” he said, his voice low and rough, “and I love you. Will you forgive my cruelty?”

“You are my father,” Legolas answered softly, “and I love you. It is already forgiven.”

Thranduil expelled a shuddering breath and they stood. Legolas felt as though he had been hollowed out, unable to feel anything but weariness and a distant, wary relief. He took his father’s arm and Thranduil leaned heavily against him as though he were old and frail. Legolas, who had never known his father to show weakness of any kind, was quietly astonished but did not say anything until they were nearly back to Lord Elrond’s chambers. Thranduil led the way, guiding them unerringly back over a path which Legolas had been too upset to note.

He hesitated outside the door, pulling back from his father. “I should go back to Gimli,” he said. “He will be expecting me, and there is much to do before the feast.” He said it almost as a test, to see if Thranduil truly meant to change his ways.

“Yes,” Thranduil answered, squeezing Legolas’s hand one last time before stepping away. “I doubt they have saved us any food in any case.”

Legolas laughed, astonished by this new found humor, and Thranduil smiled. “I will come speak to you and naneth in the morning,” he said, almost phrasing it as a question. But Thranduil nodded.

“She will like that,” he answered. His lips compressed for a moment and he sighed, adding, “Bring your dwarf. I should apologize to him as well.”

***

One day until the wedding officially began.

After the initial earthquake, King Thorin had done his due diligence and sent out five parties into the oldest and deepest of the mine shafts which riddled the Lonely Mountain. He had instructed them to search for cracks or fissures which had not been made by mining, or for signs of magma seeping to the surface. He need not have given them specifics; they were dwarves, and dwarves know the stone the way other races knew their own bodies. It was as an extension of themselves, as they both were fashioned by Aule the Smith and thus could be considered kin.

Three of the parties returned within two days and the fourth on the third day. They all reported that nothing was amiss and so the final judgement was left to the fifth party, who had gone into the deepest section of the mines and could be forgiven for being a little late to return.

All of this Dis had related to Tauriel over cups of strong tea and hard, crumbly biscuits. Children ran in circles around the table, laughing and shrieking. Many of them played at being the warriors and leaders who loomed large in their histories, like Bard the Bowman and Narvi, Isildur and Thorin Oakenshield. Others played at being wicked creatures such as orcs and trolls, and a great battle ensued throughout the house, one side led by the little girl who claimed to be Gil-Galad and the other by a small dwarf who shouted that he was Sauron.

“You seem worried,” Tauriel observed, lifting her cup again as one of Sauron’s army crashed into the table leg. “Do you think they will find anything?”

“Part of me does not,” Dis answered. “But part of me feels that they must.” She sipped her tea, dark brows drawn down over deep brown eyes. “Dwalin went with them, you see.”

And Tauriel did. She had spent much of her time these past few days with the old dwarf woman - though how strange to think of her as old when Tauriel far oustripped her in years. The two of them had found a sort of comfort in one another; for each, the other was their sole link to the dark-haired dwarf that they had both loved. At first it had been bittersweet, a constant reminder of what she had let slip through her fingers. The way Dis laughed and smiled, the way she braided her hair, her gestures and expressions, all reminded Tauriel of Kili. He had carried inside him a vital fire which had drawn Tauriel to him, and that fire was alive in his mother.

In Tauriel, Dis had found a living, unchanging memory of her sons and she asked again and again about them. They would be speaking of something utterly unrelated and Dis would interrupt to ask Tauriel to remind her what Fili’s hair looked like in the sun, or how Kili’s hand felt when she’d touched it. Though these questions pained her, forcing her to recall a time that she would rather have left in the past, she obliged Dis every time, not so foolish as to suppose that her pain was greater than that of a mother who had lost both of her children on the same fell day.

She had also come to understand, albeit not well, the complicated relationship between Dis and Dwalin. They lived together, raised children together, but there was no romance between them. Dwalin, she had learned, had been deeply in love with Thorin Oakenshield, and when Thorin had died, a part of Dwalin had died as well. He had come to Dis so that they might mourn their loss together, united in their anger at Thorin and what he had become. Dis’s fury towards her brother was unmitigated; she blamed him wholly for the death of her sons and if she felt sorrow at his demise, Tauriel suspected it was only because she could not avenge her children by killing him herself.

Dwalin’s feelings, however, were more complicated, his anger tightly entwined with betrayal, love, and a sorrow so deep that Tauriel was surprised he had survived it. He seemed not to compartmentalize, as many mortal beings did, setting aside past hurts in order to make the most of the life that they had left. Dwalin, like her own people, felt his hurts as though they had happened yesterday, though in his case it was not because he remembered all things in his past vividly, but because he constantly went over his pain, keeping it raw as a sort of personal punishment for not being able to save Thorin.

And now he had delved deep into the mountain in search of whatever had caused the earthquake and Dis was left alone to worry over whether he would return. Frowning, Tauriel poured some more tea for both of them and deftly caught one of Gil-Galad’s host before he hit his head on the corner of the table.

“You think that because he went something ill will befall him?” she asked.

“Aye,” Dis answered, a faint grimace twisting her face. “I know it’s not so, but I can’t help feeling that all of the ones I have loved in my life suffer from the worst luck.”

Tauriel made comforting noises, but privately she thought that Dis was not wrong. She had lost everyone close to her save Dwalin, and now he was late coming back from an expedition into the deepest mines. Dis’s worry was natural and though Tauriel wished she could ease it, she did not have the words.

“It’s fine, child,” Dis said, a rueful smile touching her lips. “I do not expect you to convince me otherwise. But saying a worry out loud makes it seem less threatening.”

The conversation ended there. A small group of the children, in open defiance of the unstated rules of the game, had banded together to declare themselves hobbits and therefore immune to Sauron’s powers. This had instigated a shouting match between them and the Ringwraiths, and Dis excused herself to go break it up. Tauriel left the house, her worry over Dis’s state of mind a dark cloak upon her shoulders.

She was withdrawn as she made her way back to Erebor, weaving in and out of the steep streets of Dale. There were many elves there now, all of Lord Elrond’s household. Some of them she recognized and some she did not, but she did not pause to speak with any of them, only waved and nodded and continued on her way. She wondered if Gimli knew of Dwalin’s inclusion in the mission; they were kin, after all, and though dwarves seemed to have greatly tangled family trees, she knew that Gimli was fond of the old dwarf, and that Gloin counted him a great friend.

The entrance to Erebor was crowded with people and carts bringing in things for the wedding or carrying out payments for items and services rendered. Tauriel wove her way among them, pushing through the flow of bodies to reach the staircase that led up to her quarters. Only a week ago, these stairs had been all but deserted; most of Thranduil’s people had elected to remain in Dale, and for a time it had only been herself and the King and Queen who took rooms in Erebor. Now, however, a good portion of Lord Elrond’s retinue had taken up residence in the specially constructed rooms and the staircase was crowded with elves going back and forth to Dale and the markets.

Tauriel kept her head down, not wishing to be drawn into a conversation. Spending time with Dis felt good but it was taxing as well. Always she returned to the mountain with the memory of Kili fresh in her mind and the pain of lost love heavy on her heart. It would take time before she was prepared to negotiate the nuances of a casual conversation.

“Tauriel!” She stopped short at the sound of a familiar voice behind her, centuries of training forcing her obedience. She turned to see Athriel, laden with packages, making her way up the steps. Tauriel moved quickly to help her, relieving her Queen of some of her burden and falling into step beside her.

“I am pleased that I found you,” Athriel remarked as they made their way ever upward. “I have missed your company.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” Tauriel said. “I did not think that you or King Thranduil would wish to see me after I defied your orders.”

Athriel laughed. “You defied his orders, mellon nin _my friend_ , not mine. But I understand why you stayed away. He has been difficult since we came here.”

Hearing Athriel’s laugh was worth more to Tauriel than she had realized. It had been lonely, even with Legolas and Gimli and Dis as company; so long had she stood by Athriel’s side that to be away from her for even a day left Tauriel feeling adrift. Athriel continued.

“He realized, almost too late, that he had driven off everyone save myself, and he was so close to that he was tiptoeing on the edge.” Her lovely face grew grim but there was a spark of satisfaction there as well. “Legolas finally put him in his place. Thranduil is not happy about the marriage, and likely never will be, but he is keeping his peace for the sake of his son.”

“Truly?” Tauriel could scarce believe it.

“Truly,” Athriel repeated, laughing now. “Legolas shamed him so that he’s even apologized to Gimli. All day I have been in the market, ordering small gifts and trinkets to be given out to the guests at the wedding. I was lucky enough to find a wood carver who is happy to work with old barrels. He assures me that he and his family can fill my order by the time the gift giving begins, so we should be able to present everyone with a ring made of polished wood from our own forest.” She smiled and Tauriel thought, with stubborn loyalty, that she was more lovely even than Arwen Undomiel.

“That sounds like a worthy gift,” she said. 

“Yes, I think it will do very nicely,” Athriel agreed. “We brought gifts from Mirkwood for all of the important guests, of course. Thranduil thought to use presents to pacify them after he convinced Legolas not to go through with the wedding.”

“Did he truly think it would work?”

“He did.” Athriel glanced at her and her expression was both smug and sorrowful. “I knew it would not. My son is as stubborn as his father and his father’s father, but Thranduil had to discover the truth for himself. And now we are scrambling to accommodate all of the guests who have suddenly decided that this is something they must see.”

“Surely Gimli’s parents will help,” Tauriel said.

“Oh yes, they’ve offered to provide small gifts for half the crowd.” Athriel stopped outside the rooms that she shared with Thranduil and spoke softly. “You need not come in if you do not wish it. He has forgiven you, but it is not necessary for you to have forgiven him.”

Tauriel was astonished. She had been angry with Thranduil, yes, but it had never occurred to her that she might have just cause or that she was permitted to forgive him. Athriel saw her confusion and smiled, leaning in conspiratorially as though they were sisters.

“If more of us held him to a higher standard, perhaps he would not have grown so petty,” she said, arching an eyebrow. The door swung open and they both turned, Tauriel with a guilty expression, Athriel with a smile.

“Pardon me, your majesty,” Fari said, stepping out into the hallway and holding the door open for the both of them to pass. As Tauriel slipped inside the room, Fari winked at her. “Lovely to see you both.”

“What was she doing here, my love?” Athriel asked, setting her packages on a low wooden table near the door. Tauriel followed suit, though it was as if all of her limbs had turned to water. Despite what Athriel said, she was not sure of Thranduil’s reaction to her and she had no desire to test his patience.

“Going over seating arrangements,” Thranduil answered, gesturing to another table that had virtually disappeared beneath scrolls. “I hope you appreciate the position you put me in by being gone so long.” Tauriel felt an instant flush of guilt at his words though he was not addressing her. Athriel had no such reaction, crossing the room to smooth Thranduil’s golden hair.

“I did ask you to come with me,” she said mildly. Thranduil made an irritated sound.

“The markets are far too crowded,” he snapped. Athriel _hmm_ ’d and began to unwrap some of her parcels, which contained, among other things, books and clothes and fine, glittering jewels.

“And is the seating arranged to your satisfaction?” she asked. Tauriel, who had endured more than one of their arguments in her time serving the queen, folded her hands and stood quiet in the corner, hoping that Thranduil either would not notice her, or if he did, would choose to ignore her.

“It is,” Thranduil said, a hint of irritation still in his voice, though it was fading rapidly. Athriel had learned well over the years that the best way of defusing his ire was to simply ignore it. “The plans were written in Khuzdul so Fari had to read them to me. It worked out well enough, I suppose.”

“It always does,” Athriel answered, carrying a shimmering garment over to him. “Feel this. I had it made for you to wear tomorrow. Elrond brought many beautiful bolts of cloth with him from Rivendell and he was kind enough to let me have some.”

Thranduil reached out, taking the autumnal orange robes between his fingers and rubbing the cloth appreciatively. It would look fine on him, accented by the bright leaves woven through his crown of branches. Athriel had a matching gown, made of velvety gold, and ropes of yellow sapphires for her hair and her long brown throat. They would be gems themselves, mounted and gleaming in the stone of King Thorin’s halls.

“And Tauriel?” Thranduil said, turning slightly. He did not face her, not quite, but the angle of his head said that he was listening. “Did you find her something fitting?”

“Of course.” Athriel smiled at Tauriel’s obvious astonishment. “It will be ready later today.” She addressed Tauriel as she continued to unpack, draping beautiful clothing and jewels across every clean surface that she could find. “One of the smiths in the market was kind enough to prepare you some armor so that you might look the part of a proper Captain.”

“Thank you, my Queen,” Tauriel said. “My King.” 

“It is not proper armor, of course,” Thranduil said, rising. He had heard her voice and so knew where she stood, and he walked to her with unerring grace. “Merely decorative, but it seems that is the fashion at these affairs.” He reached out, took her hands in his. His face remained impassive, and he did not attempt to fix his eyes on hers, an admission of vulnerability that touched her deeply.

“I have been wroth with you,” he said, his voice low, “and I am sorry for it. You were right to refuse me.”

“I… I do not know what to say.” Never before, in all her years, had Tauriel heard Thranduil admit wrongdoing. Whatever Legolas had said, it had changed something inside him.

“You need not say anything,” Thranduil answered. “I have done wrong by you, and I regret it. I hope you will still do us the honor of sitting with us during the ceremony.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

He paused then, reached up with a long hand and cupped her cheek. “You have always made me proud, Tauriel,” he said. “I was not blessed with a daughter of my blood, but you have always been my child in my heart.” And he pressed cool lips to her forehead as she struggled to hold back her tears.

“Now,” he said, stepping away and resuming his usual coldness. “Would you be so kind as to fetch my son for me? There are arrangements still to discuss.”

And Tauriel bowed and left, and made it down an entire flight of steps before she burst into simultaneous tears and laughter.

***

The feast began right on time, for dwarves are almost as concerned with their meals as hobbits, and besides that, it was a momentous occasion.

Thorin’s Great Hall was filled to the brim with long wooden tables and benches, and in each corner of the room and in the very center were raised platforms on which musicians would play. There was a dias as well to the north end of the room where Legolas and Gimli would sit, along with their families and honored guests. Much had been made of the feast in Erebor and in Dale, for King Thorin had vowed that once the invited guests were inside and seated, they would allow in as many extra attendees as would fit into the room.

He made good on his word, throwing open the doors to the Hall and admitting a veritable flood of dwarves and humans, all of whom packed themselves onto the benches and waited in eager anticipation of the food that would be served. Many lit pipes as they waited, and a haze of blue, sweet-smelling smoke drifted up towards the high ceiling. Waves of conversation were like the roar of the ocean, ebbing and flowing, laughter crashing like breakers against the stone walls. Among the voices, bright and raucous, were the sounds of the musicians stationed on their platforms; though they all played the same songs at roughly the same times, the music seemed cheerfully chaotic, a perfect counterpoint to the eager roar of the crowd.

The guests that sat upon the dais were the last to enter: King Thorin, of course, alongside Gloin and Rona; Lord Elrond, King Thranduil, and Queen Athriel; their guests Glorfindel, his husband Erestor, Elrond’s steward Lindir, and the Captain of the Rangers of Mirkwood, Tauriel. King Bard II of Dale and his wife, who cradled an infant daughter in her arms. They were all cheered as they filed into the Great Hall and took their seats, but when Bilbo Baggins entered behind the elves and raised a hand to the assembled crowd, there was a cheer so loud that it threatened to bring down the entire mountain. The dwarves in particular were enthusiastic, stamping their feet and hammering their strong hands against the tables in appreciation of the hobbit that had helped win back their home.

All were dressed in their finest clothes, the elves in long robes of fine craftsmanship with matching jewels wound in their long hair, all save Elrond who wore a silver circlet and Thranduil who wore his crown of branches and berries and leaves. The dwarves seemed to glitter in tunics and coats painstakingly embroidered in silver and gold thread, with the accents on the designs picked out with hundreds of tiny, polished gemstones.

Bilbo was dressed the most sensibly, for he was old now and interested more in feasting rather than making an impression. Still, his clothes were new and brightly colored, and he looked very jolly indeed sitting at the table with elven lords and dwarven nobility while wearing a sunshine yellow waistcoat embroidered all over with red poppies and a blue brocade jacket.

After him, last to enter, were the couple themselves. They came into the hall to roars of approval from the assembled guests, which seemed to embarrass and please Legolas and which Gimli took as a matter of course. They were dressed in their new clothes: for Gimli, a beautifully tailored coat in soft gray, trimmed in shimmering dark blue, and for Legolas, a set of elven robes in deep forest green, decorated with embroidered leaves and vines picked out in golden thread and small flowers made of amber beads. Both wore their hair elaborately braided, Gimli sporting in his beard a pair of silver ornaments set with sapphires, and Legolas with emeralds twined throughout his golden hair.

And then, once all were seated, there came the feast.

Dishes were brought out in a flood of overwhelming, mouth-watering smells and lined up along the long surfaces of the tables until they were groaning from the weight of so much food. There were breads of all descriptions, from sweet to savory to toasted and covered in cheese; there were huge haunches of roasted meat, some surrounded by potatoes and carrots and onions and cooked in their own juices, and some that had been turned over a spit for hours, and some which had been cooked with peppers from Dale so that they set the mouth afire when bitten into; there was fowl, roasted and fried, and fish cooked in every imaginable way, including shredded and mixed with vegetables and cheese and stuffed into other, larger fish. There were vegetables of all shapes and sizes, and fruits as well, some served raw, some fried until they were crispy, some baked until soft. There were soups and stews, ranging from a cold, sweet mixture of melons and mint to a tongue-searingly spicy stew made of vegetables, peppers, and small, sweet shrimp. And the desserts were beyond count; biscuits with icing and without, cakes of varying heights and flavors, chocolates and marzipan shaped like leaves and gems and other, ruder, things. There was rice pudding, bread pudding, mango pudding, chocolate pudding, sticky toffee pudding, and at least five others not so easily identified.

It was a feast fit for a royal couple, and the assembled company cheered each dish as it was brought out and laid on the tables, but they all waited politely for the guests of honor. Once all of the food was out, once all of the cooks and bakers were seated at their own table, Thorin stood up and raised his hands for silence. The musicians ended their songs, the guests paused their conversations. Every eye turned to the King Under the Mountain.

“My friends!” he boomed, and was met with a cheer of approval. “Dwarves and Elves and Men!” Another cheer, and then his voice grew somber. “You all do me a great honor in attending this wedding, for it is not what any of us would consider typical. Even a year ago, such a union would have occasioned widespread outrage, and not the joy that I see before me.”

He paused, allowing the crowd a moment to murmur in agreement, nodding his head along with them before continuing. “But!” he said. “But. Much has changed in the past year. We have been beset by orcs and Easterlings. My own father, Dain Ironfoot, was slain defending the gates of Erebor and the body of his friend, King Brand of Dale.” At this, Thorin turned to Bard and inclined his head and the two monarchs shared a moment of grief for their lost kin.

“The world has been a dark place of late,” Thorin continued. “Evil and darkness have stretched across the land, trying to choke out all that is good.” The silence had grown somber as those assembled recalled those who could not, who had fallen to their enemies and lay now in barrows and tombs, forever beyond their reach.

“But there was a light,” Thorin said. His voice was soft but it carried across the crowd, blanketing them all and drawing them in. “We dwarves knew well the bravery of hobbits,” and here he paused to incline his head towards Bilbo, who waved a dismissive hand but looked deeply touched, “and now so too does the whole of the land.” He was forced to stop speaking again, for the roar which rose from the assembled guests was so loud, so full of love and pride, that it shook the very stones of the mountain.

Thorin held up his hands for quiet, and the cheers softened finally and he was able to continue. “But battles are not won by a single warrior, and great feats are not performed by only one individual. Many brave souls fought to keep us all safe from a great evil, and it is because of them that we may now look at the world anew, not with old hatreds and prejudices, but with hope and love and kinship.”

“Two of those souls sit before us today, their union the reason for this gathering.” He turned now to Gimli and Legolas and held his hand against his heart and bowed to them. “Their love has brought us together in celebration, as their honor and feats of bravery have allowed us to see the true beauty of this world. And so we must honor them twice over and render unto them all of the joy and light and love that we have to give, for without them, we may never have felt those things again.”

There was another roar of approval from the crowd, which swelled and built, gaining strength the longer it went on until the entire hall was on their feet, stomping their feet and shouting their approval. Legolas looked over at his love, his husband, and saw that there were tears streaming down Gimli’s face as he surveyed this explosive expression of joy. He reached over, lacing his fingers with Gimli’s own, and the two of them stood as one, their joined hands held high over their heads as the cheering reached a frenzied crescendo.

Again, however, as it had when Thorin had motioned for silence, the cheering began to fade away, and Legolas looked to see his father standing. Thranduil’s appraising gaze swept the room until all was silent. Legolas and Gimli, who had since lowered their hands, remained standing, and Gimli at least looked wary of what the Elvenking might say.

“My son was not meant to go to war,” Thranduil said, so softly that guests in the back had to strain to hear him. “I sent him to Rivendell to deliver news, and expected that he would return home. Instead, he pledged himself to a course of action which had so little chance of success that I prepared myself to mourn him.” He stopped speaking and the silence dragged on. Gimli could feel Legolas’s hand trembling in his own.

“But he did come back to me,” Thranduil continued, his voice still soft, but building with each word, gaining strength as he went on. “He came back, and he was not the same as when he left. He has seen what the world has to offer him. He has witnessed bravery and cowardice, honor and shame. He has seen so much death…” Thranduil’s voice broke, wavered for just a moment, and Legolas reached out to him. He took his son’s hand, squeezed it once, and then went on.

“He has seen so much death that my heart is broken. The life of my people is not an easy one. There is evil within the forests that we call home, but it is an evil which pales in comparison to the one that my son, my only child, has had to face.” Thranduil smiled then, and it transformed his face so that for many years after the wedding, those who were there would swear that he began to glow from within.

“Yet he did not face it alone. And though he had many companions, without whom he may not have returned to me, one in particular stands alone among the rest.” And Thranduil turned, lifting his wine glass from the table and turning to face Gimli and Legolas. “Gimli Gloin’s son, you stood by Legolas even when your road was darkest, and when he offered you his love, you accepted it for the great gift that it is and returned it in equal measure.” Thranduil raised the glass, and there was a great scraping of goblets as everyone in the Hall followed suit.

“So I offer a toast,” he said with great dignity. “To Gimli, of the line of Durin, for the courage he has shown in the face of both war and love--” and the crowd echoed him, _TO GIMLI!_ , “--and to Legolas Greenleaf, for knowing his own heart, and for his forbearance while I learned to open mine.” Once again, the crowd shouted happily, _TO LEGOLAS!_ , and Thranduil lifted his glass high. “May there always be peace amongst our people!”

There was a great cheer, followed by a collective quaffing of wine, and then the feast was in full swing. The music began, the guests dug into the repast which had been set before them, and for a time the Great Hall rung with gaiety and song. Guests rose to spell the musicians that they might also take part in the feast, for there was more than enough food for everyone.

Stories were told and songs were sung, though the real showing of talent was saved for the following days, when guests would be invited to compete with one another to show their particular skills. Bets were already flying among the dwarves, many of whom had attended Bombur’s wedding or heard about it, and still remembered the pile of gold that Gimli’s own father had made betting on Bifur to win the axe throwing contest.

The wine flowed freely, provided both from the stores of Dale and Erebor, and also from barrels brought from Mirkwood by Thranduil from his own private collection, for he enjoyed the wines made by his kin in the South and had brought many of them with him. There were toasts made to anyone and everyone as well as several things which did not particularly deserve them, such as a bench which broke and dumped several humans and dwarves onto the ground, much to the amusement of their tablemates, and a particularly fine piece of cheese.

Indeed, the feast showed no signs of winding down until well into the evening, and Tauriel, who had been drinking enthusiastically, almost didn’t see Dis standing against the wall and staring at her. But see her she did, mostly because there was so much movement and cheer that Dis stood out dramatically. She was not laughing, she was not smiling, she only edged through the crowd, picking her way closer and closer to the dias.

Tauriel stood, a little unsteady, and made her way over to the edge. No one paid her any mind, and they certainly did not impede Dis in any way; though she was not dressed nearly so richly as Thorin, most recognized her for who she was. Tauriel reached the edge at the same time as Dis, and crouched down to hear her.

“You are not at the party!” she exclaimed, offering her cup of wine to the dwarven woman. Dis waved her away and Tauriel looked into her eyes and saw that she was genuinely upset about something. She sobered somewhat, drawing Dis closer. “What is it? What is the matter?”

“The last group has come back from checking the mines,” Dis answered, her voice so low with emotion that Tauriel could scarcely hear her.

“Are they well?” she asked, worry rising inside her as Dis shook her head miserably.

“Dwalin is missing.”


End file.
